Tell Me
by justvisiting80
Summary: Bellamy and Clarke would fight an entire planet for their people, and for each other. They may have to. Set after the Season 2 finale. Multiple storylines, but this is primarily a BELLARKE fic. Rated *M* for mature content (including romantic encounters, violence and language).
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** I don't really even know what to say. This particular piece has been brewing for a while, but the end of season 2 was so... it broke me. It broke my Muses. It has been a long road back from that dark place. But please know how thrilled I am to once again have my internet life-partner, Marina Black, on board for this piece as well as the talented and glorious Persepholily and Lucawindmover. I don't know what I did to deserve these ladies!_

_**A/N2:** I have a husband, children, a career... writing fanfiction is a hobby, and like ALL the talented writers on here, I get paid only in feedback. So please take a second or two to let me know what you think! I'd be EVER so grateful._

* * *

When she arrived at the main gate to Camp Jaha one night, seemingly blown there by the heaviest of spring storms, it took Bellamy Blake several minutes to recognize her. She was no longer as gaunt, although even that change was almost impossible to ascertain beneath the grime and blood and soot and bruises and sodden layers of ragged, reclaimed clothes. It was her eyes that gave her away. He searched his memory for a name to go with those quick, clever eyes.

"...It's... Echo, isn't it?"

"Belomi kom Skaikru!" She seemed relieved, although again - emotions were as masked as the person herself on a night this dark, under rain this torrential. "Let me in! I have news, and you'll want to hear it."

Bellamy turned to the young man beside him. Miller - _Nathan_, he corrected himself, but damn it was a tough habit to break despite the months of reminders and the pissed off face Monty made every time – had found a beanie to replace the one taken at Mt Weather. It was more grey than black but he said he felt less naked this way, and Bellamy had to agree it suited him. The two men rarely bothered with words these days; a nod was enough. Nathan yanked the gate latch up, rolling aside the heavy metal barrier just enough to let the Grounder visitor inside. She might have Bellamy's trust, but Nathan was inclined to be suspicious. He saw no reason to give this woman more leeway than was absolutely necessary. The gate slammed closed again as soon as Echo was clear, and he insisted on searching her before permitting any reunions. Bellamy waited, irritated by these formalities but aware of the need to keep up appearances. He must be seen by the Grounders as a "Heda" at all times. Octavia and Lincoln would bitch at him for a week if he let such things slip.

When Nathan was satisfied he had confiscated all Echo's weapons, he escorted her to his leader. The weather was determined to make life difficult: the rain increased, pounded them violently, and Echo stepped close enough that Bellamy could feel the heat given off by her skin. She peered at him.

"I never thought to see you again," she admitted, a shout over the thunder of water pummeling hard-packed earth.

"You and me both," he yelled back. "Let's get you inside." Another quick glance at Nathan, and the orders rang out. Two new guards stepped up to fill their vacant spots as, with a gentle hand on Echo's elbow, Bellamy guided her into the fallen Ark. Nathan followed, barking at those milling around just inside the entrance, getting shit done so Bellamy wouldn't have to. Towels were produced. A small meeting room was vacated, chairs and trusted friends appeared, and all without a single breath wasted by the handsome young man with the sad dark eyes.

Echo smiled.

"I didn't realize," she began, foregoing a seat for now as she ran the towel over her long braids.

"Didn't realize…?" Bellamy prodded. He had settled into a chair on the far side of the room, one with a commanding view of the other occupants and the doorway. Kane slipped in belatedly, but he tucked himself into a shadow near the entrance, an observer only.

"You are Heda here," Echo pointed out. Her eyes widened with new respect. "I thought you were just a soldier. It seems I was mistaken."

"We lead differently," Bellamy said with a diffident shrug, intentionally keeping his answer vague. He himself wasn't always sure how to describe his place in Camp Jaha, but Echo seemed to accept his non-explanation.

"There are rumors," she admitted. "Most don't believe it possible to sustain leadership by committee – but I will tell them I've seen it with my own eyes."

Bellamy took a quick moment to assess the room. Miller – no, _Nathan_, dammit, and he'd been doing so well too – had pulled together just the right audience for this meeting. Octavia and Lincoln, the former eager, the latter tense (as he always was around other Grounders) hovered just behind Bellamy's right shoulder. Across from him sat Monty, Raven, and Wick. The first two carried themselves with the appropriate gravitas, and Wick… Bellamy knew he should like Kyle Wick, but just couldn't make it happen. Harper had taken the seat near Monty, a seat that, up until three months ago, would have been Jasper's. Kane, the quiet presence in the corner, and Nathan himself, seated to Bellamy's left, made up the rest of the participants.

No need to review who was absent.

"Can we get you anything? Food, water?" Wick asked. Octavia and Lincoln flinched at the engineer's cultural deafness. It was as if he refused to listen _on purpose_, enjoying the little discomforts these moments created. Raven sighed.

"Your generosity is… respected," Echo told Wick diplomatically. "But warriors would never take food from the mouths of families and children. We can fend for ourselves – and where I come from, to suggest otherwise is an insult." Bellamy refused to glance behind him: he could picture Octavia's haughty "I-told-you-so" expression without needing to see it in action.

"Echo, you said you have news."

"Yes. Your people are in need of help. One named Jaha and another, John Murphy. They're trying to stop the second coming of the end of the world, but they cannot do it alone."

A murmur ran through the gathered audience. Kane slipped away, his absence – like his presence – noted only by Bellamy. No doubt the Councilor was on his way to rouse Abby, to share this unexpected information.

"Excuse me, but how could you possibly know that?" Monty asked.

"Clarke told me. She's the one who sent me here."

There should have been some warning, Bellamy thought as the startled room faded into a haze around him, sounds drowned by the sudden swift beating of a heart he had not realized he'd sheltered away all these months. He had guarded that damn muscle against the sound of her name, the memory of her voice, and this was too abrupt a change in the status quo. Parts of his body – no, if he was honest, his whole body – hurt with the blow of Echo's news.

His chair clattered as it toppled and hit the metal grating of the floor. Someone grabbed his shoulder, and only then did Bellamy realize he was standing. _Who_ held onto him with such a tight grip though? Octavia was strong but nothing like this, an iron claw pulling him back, grounding him, protecting him from himself. He followed the arm to its owner's face. Lincoln stared back, waking Bellamy from his temporary stupor. A silent reminder of the need to maintain their cool façade in front of this guest. Bellamy muttered a quick harmless apology and retrieved the fallen chair, taking advantage of the physical distraction to recover from the past few seconds.

"How did you even get to speak to… _her_?" Octavia asked, and Bellamy was rocked anew by the revelation that these people, his friends and family, had not said her name around him, once, in all the time since she left.

"She's been gone for months," Raven said, "Plenty of people assumed she was dead. Honestly, why should we believe you?"

"She gave me something, as proof. It's for you, Bellamy." From some inner pocket undiscovered in Nathan's pat down, Echo produced a small book. She handed it over casually, with all the grace of a weapons trade-off and Bellamy felt a blast of irrational anger that there was no dramatic swell of music or ominous bolt of lightning to accompany each new surprise this evening brought.

He ran his fingers over the dark leather spine of Clarke's journal. He was desperate to open it. His hands shook with the effort not to slip off the string holding it shut, his head pounded with the desire to excuse everyone from the room so he could explore the pages endlessly. To lose himself in the first tangible piece of her he had allowed himself since that chilly day a lifetime ago.

"It was a difficult journey to bring this to you," Echo continued, "But now is not the time for my story. Now, we must leave."

"Wait, hold up," Wick interrupted. Bellamy turned toward the man, as did Echo. "Say I believe you, that you've got this message from… from, uh, Clarke," and again there was no mistaking the hesitation, or the worried eyes as they flickered Bellamy's way, "What's your plan? We don't know where Jaha is, we don't know where Clarke is… and anyway, why didn't she just come tell us all this herself?"

Bellamy stood, walked to the doorway. Looking for Abby, he told himself. Behind him, Raven hissed at Wick.

"Kyle, stop!"

"No! I'm sorry, but her people totally screwed us over! For all we know, she _killed_ Clarke and took that book off her body, as some ploy to get into Camp and finish Lexa's plan!"

Without wasting time on thought Bellamy turned and lunged, snagging Echo by the waist before she could reach Wick. He recognized murder in her disappointed snarl.

"Hey. I'm vouching for her," Bellamy warned the engineer. "That's going to have to be good enough for you." He released Echo once he was sure she had no intention of harming Raven's boyfriend, and settled back against the frame of the door to listen. The Grounder woman straightened her clothes and grimaced at Wick before responding.

"When Clarke and I parted, she was on her way to Polis. She said she had something she needed to do before she could return." Echo glanced at Bellamy, clearly worried by his blank face. "I assumed you would know what she meant." Her uncertainty carried into her voice. It was the first time since her arrival that she had seemed anything less than supremely confident of her mission. An awkward silence filled the space left by Echo's words, a silence Bellamy broke when he cleared his throat.

"It's too late to do anything tonight, and the weather is a mess anyway. We'll leave tomorrow. Echo, there's a spare room a few doors down. Harper will take you." Bellamy raised one eyebrow in pre-emptive response to Harper's protest, and she huffed but complied.

With their guest gone, six pairs of eyes turned to watch their leader. He dragged a rough hand over his face. No one dared speak. Not even Wick.

"Okay everyone. Bed."

They did not move, and Bellamy frowned.

"That's an order!"

Their defiant, sympathetic silence was painful. More painful than he could have possibly expected. He struggled to stay upright, to stay in command, to keep _Her_ – the memory of her, the unexpected presence of her, the twisted-up promise of her – at bay long enough to do what had to be done.

"This isn't right." The words came out of Raven a strangled mess. Tears burned in the corners of her eyes. "You know it wasn't supposed to be like this, Bellamy. She was supposed to come _home_."

He turned and walked out of the room, pushing past a startled Abby, before anyone (Lincoln or Monty or, God forbid, Octavia) could catch his eye.

* * *

Tucked into a corner of the space station alone with Clarke's journal, Bellamy hesitated. At first he had been so sure he wanted to open it. At first the discovery of its existence had burned through him, the weight of the book in his hand a painful test of patience. But now there was no excuse and Bellamy Blake was terrified. What would Clarke consider worthy of committing to paper? Would she have chronicled her days since leaving him, or her private thoughts? And if it was the latter, could Bellamy bring himself to read that? It would be the worst kind of assault, letting himself into her private world... even if she _had_ granted him tacit permission, when she passed it on to Echo.

"Dammit, Blake, pull it together," he grumbled to himself, and tugged at a loose end of string. He wrapped it carefully around his wrist, aware of the delay inherent in the act but refusing to rush.

The first page was a sketch, and Bellamy almost laughed at his own stupidity. Of course she would have used the paper for this. Why waste time with words, when an image could do so much more? And what an image: Camp Jaha, at sunset. Even with only charcoal as her medium, Clarke had somehow captured the way the sun's rays gleamed off the metal, the long shadows thrown over the ground, the warmth of those last minutes of daylight. Bellamy smiled and turned the page, and there was the dropship.

It hurt.

It shouldn't have, they'd barely lived there a month, but knowing that Clarke had missed it enough to return to it… And that when she had drawn it, she had elected to show it not as it was now – a dead hunk of charred grey metal sitting on soot-blackened ground – but as it had been, back when it was their home… It stung. Simple lines came to life under Bellamy's trailing fingers, delinquents milling around the yard, and he could almost feel the breeze kicking mildly at the parachute fabric covering the main entrance.

He stayed on this image far longer than the first, dissecting Clarke's style – her use of white space, the different ways she shaded the trees and the ship itself – until some inner voice prodded him: Clarke was not the kind of person to give a gift like this for purely sentimental reasons.

He held the journal up by its spine and shook, hoping something would fall free. One page – one nondescript page toward the middle of the book – shifted. Clarke must have been so careful, Bellamy realized as he flipped the journal open to the right spot, as he noted the way she had cut it almost-but-not-quite wholly free of the bindings, then lined it back up well enough that its presence would go undetected in a cursory examination. Bellamy grinned and bit back a mutinous thought ("_That's my good girl, Clarke"_).

It was a map, bare-boned, hazy on details.

At the end of the route, an acronym: A.L.I.E.

Bellamy frowned, tugged the page free, flipped it over. There had to be more. This was… nothing. This was a road to nowhere; she had left no information about what they'd find when they got there, no clue as to what supplies they'd need or how many people. Was A.L.I.E. a new group of survivors? Were Murphy and Jaha in a Mount Weather situation? _There had to be more. _She must have sent him more than this.

"...Echo..."

He pushed himself upright and hurried to her, pausing only long enough to knock once before letting himself in to the dimly-lit room.

"Bellamy?" She was lying on top of the thin covers, still dressed in the dry inner layers of her traveling clothes. Always at the ready. Bellamy spared a moment to admire that kind of dedication.

"I need help."

"Of course." Echo swung her legs over the edge of the low cot, making room for him. Bellamy sank down beside her and showed her the map.

"Was there more to your message? Specifics about what we need to bring, what to do when we get to Jaha? Anything?" Bellamy stared at her, desperate. Echo nodded in understanding, but she seemed sad.

"I'm sorry, our conversations were not like that. We were in a group, and she spent most of her time answering the questions of the curious. Clarke is becoming famous among my people. We only had a few moments alone. But I'm sure the book is supposed to tell you everything you need to know."

Bellamy fanned back through the pages – image after beautiful image of the places Clarke had gone, the people she had met – but there was nothing helpful. Frustrated, he stood and threw the book onto the cot beside Echo.

"Well, it's pretty damn obvious I'm not smart enough to find whatever clues she left for me."

Echo did not answer. She picked up the journal, leafing through its pages slowly.

"She is very good, isn't she?"

"Hm."

"But what does this mean?" Echo pointed to a page from the second half of the book. Bellamy pulled closer, leaning over her shoulder to examine a sketch of Raven, one he had not seen before. It was Raven in silhouette, at work: determined, fierce, smiling. Her ponytail trailed over one slim shoulder; curled cleverly into those dark tresses were two sentences, Clarke's tidy handwriting unmistakable: _She could have stopped Oppenheimer. Maybe she still can._

Echo looked up at Bellamy, mystified. His eyes were wide with understanding.

"Holy shit. Echo... It's a bomb."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:**_ Special thanks go to my darling beta Marina Black, whose talents seem to know no bounds! And please also take a moment to thank Persepholily, who read and offered notes on this chapter as well._

**A/N2:** _Thank you all SO, SO much for the positive feedback on the first chapter! As you can tell by this speedy second post, comments feed the Muses... I hope this chapter also meets with your approval. (Fingers - and toes - crossed!)_

* * *

In the tiny room Raven Reyes had recently begun sharing with Kyle Wick, a mobile hung just over her workbench: feathers of different sizes and colors, gathered with care and strung just as carefully. Raven loved the sense of anticipation built it into it, loved the way it begged for a flirty breeze to tickle it into movement. Whenever Raven's stress levels escalated, threatening the easy comfort of their living quarters, Kyle would tap on the slender branch from which the feathers hung. It was as simple a gesture as the mobile itself - but when the feathers danced to whispered memories of flight, they pulled Raven from whatever dark place she found herself.

Right now though, Raven stood in her doorway staring out at Bellamy, wondering if there were enough feathers on the whole damn planet to restore her patience with this man.

His persistent insomnia was well documented at this point; but Raven generally preferred at least, oh, four or five hours of sleep. All this cloak-and-dagger, in-the-dead-of-night, secret meeting bullshit was taking everything just one step too far. She opened her mouth to tell him so, loudly – but he shoved a drawing under her nose and Raven felt her annoyance evaporate.

"Oh, wow! …Oh. C – Clarke drew this."

"Raven, _focus!_ Look closer. In the hair."

"… Oppenheimer? Wait, I know – "

"Yeah, thought you might. Now, are you coming?"

Raven glanced back at Kyle, half-naked, even in sleep keeping himself balanced on one side of their narrow bed. He was good to her, maybe even too good, but she wasn't eager to let him know that. A hint of a smile played over her features. Crawling back in beside him was tempting… but so was the mystery Bellamy had just presented her.

"Yeah, okay. Coming," she muttered as she stepped into the hall. He was alone except for Octavia, irritated at her brother and disinclined to hide the sentiment. Bellamy seemed oblivious, although perhaps that was a sibling thing, the ability to tune out each other's emotions when necessary.

"Octavia, where are Monty and Nathan?"

"Relax, Bell. I told you, they'll catch up. _You're_ the one who sent everyone to bed and then called us all back two hours later, so give it a rest."

They gathered in Bellamy's room to wait, he drumming his fingers impatiently against Clarke's journal as he paced, Octavia curling herself onto his untouched bed and leaning her head against the wall with a yawn. Raven joined her; despite her relaxed posture, it was clear the youngest Blake sibling was unhappy.

Bellamy, a source of constant movement in an otherwise serviceable but blank room, was both mesmerizing and painful to watch. They had all grown accustomed to the quiet, introspective Bellamy of the past few months. Raven had almost forgotten this side of him, this energy, the terrifying relentless drive forward. She was tempted to stand, to grab him by the shoulders and give him a good shake, but Octavia intervened first.

"Sit the hell down, Bellamy," she ordered. "You're driving us all nuts." To Raven's surprise he complied, pulling a stool toward his small table and opening the journal once more to the image of Raven.

"There are others," he began, pausing for a quick glare at Monty and Nathan as they crept into the room. "But we'll start here. The Oppenheimer thing… she wants you to stop a bomb, Raven. That's obvious."

"Agreed, but why me? I mean, I'm all for blowing shit up, but this is the opposite of that. And besides, this isn't our first rodeo. I'd think by now any number of our people could tackle a bomb threat." She glanced back at Monty as she spoke, who nodded in agreement.

"Not like this. I think… I think it's a dirty bomb." Bellamy's audience let out a collective murmured curse. "Think about it. Echo said Murphy and Jaha are trying to stop the second end of the world." He looked up into four nervous faces. Monty spoke first.

"But Bellamy… that's… what can _we_ do against a nuclear weapon?"

"Funny you should put it that way," Bellamy said with a grim smile. "She has a plan, although I don't understand all of it yet." He turned the page, to Monty's likeness; the teen's kind smile, dark worried eyes, and mop of thick hair tugged at each of them. The Monty on paper looked as though he wanted desperately to step from this book and hug the artist, as though he intended to heal a certain broken heart with the bottomless generosity of his own.

Bellamy continued, pointing to one particular area of the sketch. "I don't know what this means."

And there it was, a sentence tucked along Monty's jaw line.

"Wow – yeah, I don't get it either," Nathan admitted.

"Code red: Melissa, I love you," Raven read softly, repeating the words several more times under her breath.

"Was she drunk?" Octavia asked bitterly. "I mean, maybe it's all just coincidence."

"She wasn't. It's _not_." Bellamy ran his fingers over the letters as he spoke, and the others pulled back, wandering the room, trying to think like Clarke.

"Monty, who's Melissa?" Raven tried.

"No idea. And I definitely don't love her," he pointed out, flashing a nervous glance at Nathan.

"Maybe Clarke _does_," Octavia quipped.

"_Stop_." Bellamy's ragged voice rubbed raw over everyone's skin, and even Octavia knew she had pushed too far.

"Okay, what about the way the words are written? Does that matter?" Raven finally asked.

"What do you mean?" Monty tilted his head at her.

"Clarke's got perfect handwriting, and there was plenty of room there. So why'd she push 'I love you' all together like that?" Monty inhaled sharply and jumped toward Bellamy.

"Wait… not 'I love you' – it's 'ILOVEYOU'. It's... a virus. Guys. They're computer viruses!" Nathan laughed and Bellamy sighed in relief as Monty continued, talking faster now that he had figured it out. "These are some of the most damaging viruses in history: Code Red, ILOVEYOU, and Melissa. But… they were dependent on an old universal internet system that delivered messages electronically. We're talking about some really outdated programming."

"Whoa, you took it too far there, buddy," Raven assured him. "Clarke wouldn't know about all that. I don't get how she knew _this_, but I think she just means you'll have to design a computer virus. You know, a modern one."

"Oh. Right."

With two mysteries behind them, Raven began pacing the same route Bellamy had defined earlier. She could feel the familiar rush of energy that always came when unraveling a difficult puzzle, and she asked Bellamy for the next one without breaking stride.

"I already know the next one," Bellamy said quietly. He thumbed to another sketch. This one stilled the room.

Bellamy Blake had never looked so beautiful.

It must have been her last view of him. White shirt open at the collar, every scar and freckle mapped, each curl frozen forever against his forehead… and yet all of it paled in comparison to Bellamy's eyes. To say they were the eyes of a lover betrayed was to do an injustice to both artist and subject. Those words could not capture the hurt, the pain Clarke had embedded into every crevice of his dark warm gaze. They could not match the volume of his grief.

And no words had yet been invented to describe the willing sacrifice also there, the painful knowledge that of course he would let her go, regardless of what it did to the man left behind.

Raven felt as though she were interrupting some horrible, violently intimate moment, staring into those eyes.

"Looks like I'm taking you all to A.L.I.E." Bellamy pointed to a message wrapped tenderly along the shirt collar, letters that caressed the shadows at the base of his throat: _Maybe we're the ones who will never know the joy of weakness._

Nathan interrupted the somber moment. "Wait, how the hell do you get _anything_ like that from some bad poetry scribbled on a picture?" He looked around at the others. Monty, equally lost, shrugged and shook his head.

"When she sent him in to Mount Weather," Octavia revealed, "It was one of the last things she said to him. But I don't really know what – "

"I think I do," Bellamy interrupted. "Hardly matters now. The point is, this one's first. All the others follow: Raven, Monty, Mill – er, Nathan – is here too."

"I am?"

"Sure. You're our merry thief." Bellamy held up the sketch, and Nathan grabbed the journal eagerly. His original beanie was there, pulled close to his brow, emphasizing bright eyes and a half-smile. When he read the words – _Robin Hood had a heart of gold, too_ – his sudden grin surprised Raven. She was used to his wisecracks, not this kind of boyish happiness that lit him up from inside. But it was important to Nathan that Clarke had spent time on a sketch of him, and that she had opted to draw him not as he'd been in Mount Weather – muted and powerless – but as she had known him before: strong, free.

"Okay, so what's my job?" Octavia leaned in, the movement telegraphing her eagerness for action. Bellamy avoided her gaze, and some tiny warning system within Raven suggested this was not going to end well. Raven watched the older Blake carefully. Bellamy, for his part, watched Octavia.

"Look. It's just a suggestion. You can do what – "

"What'd she _say_, Bell." It wasn't really a question.

In response, Bellamy turned the book around until it was facing his little sister. She picked it up and read quickly.

"Easier to find men willing to die, than those willing to endure patience."

"Caesar. And she got it wrong, actually," Bellamy admitted. "It's 'those willing to endure pain with patience,' but – "

"But the meaning's still the same," Octavia growled. "I told you, Bellamy. I fucking _told_ you!"

"We are _not_ having this discussion again!"

"It's not a _discussion_, Bellamy, it's a damn _fight!_" Octavia was in his face, delicate nostrils flared, cheeks flushed in anticipation. Raven groaned. It had been a while since the Blakes had gone after each other over Clarke and her decisions; she thought maybe they'd been able to put it behind them. Clearly she was wrong.

"She was doing the best – "

"No! You have to stop doing this to yourself!" She hurled the journal across the room. "Just… stop apologizing for her!"

"I'm not apol – "

"Oh, wake up, Bellamy! She's _not_ who you think she is! She's _changed!_"

"_Enough!_" Bellamy was standing now, the siblings toe to toe. Raven saw Octavia's fingers curl and uncurl as though eager to take a swing at her brother. Instead, she settled for a hard shove against his chest and stormed from the room.

Silently, Bellamy retrieved Clarke's journal and turned to follow his little sister. Raven stopped him, a hand on forearm.

"I'd say you're the wrong person for this one, wouldn't you?" She could have said more, could have bullet-pointed for Bellamy all the specifics of why he was not in a position to be his sister's keeper at the moment, but he threw her a guilty-grateful look and Raven turned for the door without another word.

* * *

Bellamy watched Raven round the corner in pursuit of Octavia. Tried to let go of that particular battle. Tried to focus on the next steps.

He turned to Monty and Nathan. "There's also a map, but it's incomplete."

"Oh good, _more_ puzzles." Nathan yanked his beanie from his head and ran one frustrated hand over tight black curls.

"Nathan…" Monty's low voice soothed him temporarily; the teen sank onto the edge of the bed recently vacated by the women, and offered a small apologetic smile.

"Yeah, alright. Bring it. Although without Raven here, pretty much half your brain trust is gone."

"No. Grounder perspective is what we need now."

The men slipped through dark quiet hallways to the Ark's main entrance. Within the fallen station, the storm outside seemed an abstraction. It was a thought exercise, nothing more. These metal halls were dry, although their inorganic chill crept under the skin.

Out there though, the weather was a very real thing with no interest in stopping. Wind, arriving from the South, carried warmth but also drove the rain sideways. The trio hurried around the corner of the massive structure, clinging desperately to its metal side even though it offered no shelter; perhaps they just needed to feel anchored in some way. This grim pounding storm was half-monster, and no one wanted to be ripped from the security of Camp and sucked into the heart of the gale.

Lincoln and Octavia had constructed a small home, just inside the massive electric fence but halfway between the Ark and the woods. It could not be called a tent, but it was not a cabin either; it was, as with so much on Earth, a cobbled-together thing, a sturdy wood-and-metal frame over which fabric had been secured.

It should not be standing in weather like this.

"Lincoln?" A strong gust pulled the name from Bellamy's lips before it had a hope of reaching anyone. He frowned and stepped inside, careful to grip the tent flap close against the treacherous wind.

Lincoln was pushing his feet into his boots.

"Octavia never came back after the meeting," he offered by way of explanation. "She shouldn't be out in this storm."

"She's with Raven, actually." Bellamy's answer gave the warrior pause; tension in his shoulders visibly ebbed. "I need your help, Lincoln. It's about – " Bellamy felt his voice crack, and silently cursed his mutinous body. He had hoped that, by running up on her name in this way, he could overcome the strange mental block surrounding her. He was wrong. "… The journal." Part of him railed, angry at his own ineptitude, furious at _her_ for doing this to him.

Lincoln very wisely made no comment. Instead he gestured his guests toward the few seats he and Octavia had commandeered. Monty accepted gratefully, Nathan cautiously. Their tense history still clouded all of Nathan and Lincoln's interactions, despite the intervening months of partnership.

Bellamy stayed upright. "We have a map to Jaha and Murphy. But it's damn useless right now. There are no markings, no way to orient us. Instead she left us these clues. Here." And Bellamy held a drawing toward Lincoln.

This sketch of the dropship was as dark and ominous as Clarke's earlier one had been hopeful. In the sky behind, unmistakable through bare tree branches, a mushroom cloud loomed over the landscape. The sides of the ship itself, where Murphy had once scribbled a prescient threat to Wells and Abby had later scrawled the coordinates of the fallen Ark, now said, 'A journey of 200 miles…'

"… Begins with a single footstep," Bellamy finished absentmindedly. "But that's not even right."

"It is if you need scale."

"What?"

"_This_ journey might be 200 miles."

Bellamy looked down at the map again. Then at the side of the dropship. He tried not to feel like an idiot.

"And you'll be heading northeast. Look at the placement of the cloud. The bridge your people bombed was to the southeast, so this picture is wrong."

"… Well fuck."

"Hey, it's okay, Bellamy. You got a lot of the others," Monty tried. Bellamy shot him a weary glare.

"It's not a damn contest, Monty. I just want to make sure I know what to expect." He turned back to Lincoln. "Since you got that one so fast, want to try another?"

Lincoln nodded, and Bellamy turned the page.

Thelonius Jaha was in mourning. His head was bowed; a tear had escaped his closed lids and hung suspended in mid-air. Wells might not have been physically present when this was drawn, but he was most certainly on the mind.

"Watch your step: the sands of time will swallow us all." Lincoln read slowly, meticulously sounding out each syllable carved into the back of Jaha's neck. He frowned. "Is there more?"

"No, it's… you don't know what it means?"

"Well, she's right," Lincoln said, "But if there's something more, I can't see it."

"No. There's more. It _always_ means more." Bellamy stood, pacing again in an effort to keep his temper at bay.

"Quicksand?" Nathan tried.

"…What's quicksand?" Lincoln asked blankly.

"So that's a no," Monty murmured. "Is it about… the actual amount of time it'll take?"

"_How_, Monty?" Nathan's disparaging question gave voice to Bellamy's silent frustration, and he flinched with guilt but kept moving.

"Sands of time… a beach? A desert?" Bellamy pushed. He _hated_ this feeling, of something seemingly within reach and yet unattainable. He needed to prove it untrue.

"It could be either. Both are relatively close," Lincoln replied.

"Dammit Lincoln, that's not _good_ enough!"

"Hey, I'm not your personal guide to the planet!"

"Then what the hell use _are_ you?" He didn't mean it. Of course not. Lincoln was the closest thing Bellamy had to a brother. But he was fed up with the games, with this ridiculous half-presence that hurt so much more than her absence, and without her here to bear the brunt of his pain he needed a punching bag.

"_You're_ the one that's supposed to know her!" Lincoln shot back.

"Shit," Nathan breathed. Monty whistled but said nothing.

"Apparently not," Bellamy whispered, the fire gone. "I… need some air. Keep working." He fled the tiny home, aching to be free of his sister's comfortable happiness, desperate for a distraction from this night.

Instead he found Abby.

"Bellamy, thank god," she began when he bumped into her at the entrance to the Ark. "Kane told me about our visitor."

"Yeah, uh… we'll take care of it," Bellamy tried, agitated but not interested in offending his sometime ally.

"No. _You_ won't." As she spoke, Abby placed one hand on his shoulder. She was surprisingly strong.

"Abby, I'll explain everything in the morning, but for now you should try to sleep."

"Hey! Listen to me, dammit!" She moved into his personal space, pushing well past his normal comfort zone, and finally Bellamy saw her face: hope and fear skittering over her features, lending a manic gleam to her eyes. When she spoke it was in that low tense growl she tended to aim at Kane. "Tomorrow when the others leave, you send someone else in your place."

"What do you mean?"

"You have to go to her, Bellamy. We know where she is now. You find Clarke, and you bring her home, understand?" Abby bit her lip, clamping down on tears she had been holding at bay for far too long. Gone was the tone of command. All she had left was a shaky plea. "You're the only one who can."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** _This chapter, as always, is a testament to the wonder that is Marina Black. Check her out here, over on our joint Tumblr site ("thundershirts") or on Twitter... and now even on Kindle Worlds!_

**A/N2:** _I'm feeling quite frustrated with FFN at the moment. I am not always receiving emails regarding PMs or feedback left on chapters, and I am fairly certain chapter notifications are not being sent (or are severely delayed). I will announce future chapter postings on Twitter just to be safe, so if you want to follow me there (justvisiting80) you can do so. I generally Tweet about The100 and very little else._

**A/N3:** _This is my gentle reminder about the positive power of feedback. I have posted 3 chapters in a week, precisely because of the lovely responses I've gotten from all of you. Thank you for your support, and for encouraging me to continue this story!  
_

* * *

"I won't do it, Abby." Bellamy tried to free himself from the woman's anxious grip, anxious expression – but she was not done with him.

"Why not? Just because she… _ordered_ you to chase after Thelonius and John instead?"

Bellamy bristled at the cheap shot. He knew what she was trying to do, knew how desperate Abby must feel to sink so low.

"That's not it."

"Then give me a reason! Why aren't you out there _right now_ looking for my daughter?"

And just like that they were back at the beginning, as if the intervening months had never happened. Just like with Octavia, old wounds reopened and the venom of blame seeped out. Bellamy resisted the temptation to succumb, to repeat this same tired argument for the hundredth time.

"Because that's not how it works." _That's not how she works. That's not how __we__ work. _It was inadequate, but the best he had to offer. "Look. She'll be back when she can handle it. If she's not here, it's because she's not ready." It sounded so good. He sounded like the kindest, most generous bastard he had ever met. He loathed himself.

Abby sank back. "That's… that's _bullshit_, and you know it!" Bellamy raised a brow at her choice of language. "Polis is Lexa's city. It's the lion's den, Bellamy, and she's walking right into it. She could _die_ out there and we'd never even know!"

Bellamy sighed. It seemed to last a year.

"How is that any different from every other day?"

He stepped around her and headed for his room, the ghosts of Octavia and Dr. Griffin trailing in the shadows, both women furious but for such very different reasons. Their anger twisted inside him and infected his thoughts. He shook his head, trying to move past them. Trying to remember other sketches from the journal. Trying to piece together anything else that might help tomorrow.

But Abby's words tugged at him. Polis was still too foreign, still an unknown in their ever-broadening world. What if she was right? What if it was more dangerous than he realized? What if his faith in his absent co-leader was a mistake?

…What if it was the kind of mistake people didn't walk away from?

For the second time tonight, Bellamy found himself outside Echo's temporary quarters. He stepped back, leaned against the wall opposite, and banged his head lightly, twice, on the cool metal. This was not the answer. This poor woman deserved a night of sleep – not a series of increasingly frenetic interrogations.

"Ah, fuck it." He pushed himself across the hall and rapped lightly on the door. Maybe she wouldn't answer. Maybe that would be better, would absolve him of this vague sense of treason.

"Heda Bellamy?" Echo was slow with sleep, her eyes as heavy as her footsteps, and yet she welcomed him readily. "More drawings?"

"Polis. Tell me about it." His abrupt command threw her for a moment and her eyes narrowed, but she recovered and crossed her arms, settling comfortably into a wide stance that mirrored his own.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"Hm. Well, I would begin by telling you that it was _almost _our greatest accomplishment." As she spoke, Echo paced a tight circle around the small room. "The stories say after the war, our ancestors were scattered, scared. Very little survived which held us together. This was before the Nations formed and gave us our identities. I don't think you can picture that time, the lack of belonging, the feeling of being left to drift in the wind. And yet even during those early years, some hoped for a better world. A united world. They believed Polis could be our new beginning. There are legends about the effort to rebuild the city. Some say thousands answered the call to help, people who were eager to be a part of history."

She paused, her eyes distant, melancholy. Bellamy forced himself not to interject. Forced patience into the silence instead.

"The result was _almost_ a place of unity. But there were disagreements, and just when the reconstruction of Polis was nearing completion those disagreements turned violent. Out of that war came the Nations, but Polis was the price we paid. It was abandoned, left as little more than a children's story. Instead of unifying us, it became a reminder of why we must never trust people from outside our own clan."

"But that's not true now." Bellamy's low half-question seemed to startle Echo back to reality.

"No. When Lexa began uniting the clans again, she selected Polis as the heart of the Alliance. It was a symbol of past mistakes, yes, but also a place of hope. Now, though… it seems history repeats itself." Bellamy felt a chill at her fatalistic tone.

"What does that mean?"

"Our Heda's reputation was damaged in the Battle of Mount Weather. She is vulnerable now more than ever before. The city has become a place for secret deals, for alliances easily negotiated and just as easily broken." Echo's expressive face twisted in disgust and she spat on the ground. "It is not an honorable place, Bellamy."

"How do you know all this?"

"I lived there for a time. Before, when I was – " her voice broke and she stared down at her hands so long Bellamy began to worry. When she spoke again, it was in a voice suffused with grief.

"You understand the idea of seconds?"

Bellamy shrugged. "Well enough. My sister served as Indra's second briefly."

"Really? That is impressive. I was second to a warrior named Costia. She – "

But Bellamy was already there. "_Lexa's_ Costia?"

"The same."

He turned away, trying to piece this new information into his understanding of Grounders and Lexa and the Battle of Mount Weather. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he flailed, grasping at facts, arranging them around himself in a vain effort to see the whole landscape. To see where he fit into it, where _she_ fit into it…

"Echo. Why would she go there?"

"Who, Lexa?" ..._Dammit._ He would have to do it. Bellamy ground his teeth together and clenched his fists in anticipation.

"Clarke." Her name: it started out so soft, a tip of the tongue against teeth, open and hopeful… and ended hard and fast, cutting off air. But at least saying it to this woman was easier than he expected. She did not stare at him like he was some broken thing.

Echo frowned in thought. "She didn't tell me why. But there are rumors about her, and if half of them are true, she has several possible reasons to go."

"Tell me all of them." This time Echo balked at the force of his command.

"You may be Heda _here_, Bellamy, but you are not my leader. I've been patient and helpful. There is no reason to speak to me like that."

"Shit, you're right, I'm sorry. It's late. And… I'm worried about her."

"Clarke does not need your worry. She is a hero."

"She is also a friend."

"… I see." Echo licked her lips and watched him. "Personally, I have three theories as to why Clarke would visit Polis. First, to reunite with Lexa. Many say theirs was more than just a strategic alliance, and that Lexa waits for Clarke so they can make it official."

Bellamy's mouth went dry. He swallowed hard, but managed not to flinch at the news. He listened to the uneven sound of his own breathing as Echo continued, oblivious.

"She may also be in Polis to meet others and find her next path. Clarke has traveled extensively through our lands. Some believe she seeks a new, more distant Nation. A new adventure. And then there are a few… who whisper. They say Lexa never should have turned her back on Mounonripa.* They say anyone willing to slaughter an entire mountain will happily slit Lexa's throat in her sleep as payment for her treachery."

"And if you've heard these rumors, then it's safe to assume Lexa knows them too."

"Yes."

Bellamy picked up where Echo had stopped, pacing the length of the tiny room, weighing his options. He had none.

"I have to get to Polis."

"You'll never make it by yourself."

"I know. You're going to take me." He stopped in front of Echo, looked down at those clever eyes, searched them carefully. "…_Please._"

* * *

The sound of rustling fabric startled Lincoln upright; out of instinct, he covered Octavia's sleeping body with his own while simultaneously grabbing for the hunting knife she kept under her pillow.

"Relax, it's just me," Bellamy whispered into the blackness, and Lincoln sighed.

"I was ready to kill you."

"Glad you didn't. Listen, I need the journal back."

"On the chair by the door." Lincoln listened blindly to the hushed sound of Bellamy's sure, steady movements.

"Thanks. And Lincoln… I'm going to need you and Octavia on the Jaha mission, after all."

* * *

Raven and Wick were dressing the next morning when he happened to look up from tying his boots, and something near their front door caught his attention.

"Oh, so now you have a secret boyfriend slipping you love notes in the middle of the night?" he teased with a laugh, pointing at the sheaf of papers poking out from the threshold. Raven frowned and grabbed them, staring in confusion at the map to A.L.I.E. and several of Clarke's sketches. They had been ripped from the journal, and a note on top in Bellamy's surprisingly tidy script read, "Take care of them for me."

* * *

Echo stood just beyond the tree line, waiting as Bellamy took one last look at Camp Jaha. He was not as sentimental as she expected; a few seconds and he had turned back to her, his face obscured by the darkness of this moonless night.

"You did not say goodbye to your friends," she noted.

"No."

"Or your family?" Bellamy paused for a moment at that, but only a moment. He grabbed the straps of his pack and shifted it higher onto his shoulders, settling into a pace that matched hers easily. Echo was surprised to find he moved through the midnight forest as well as he did. She had expected the Skaikru to be clumsy and inefficient out here.

"Octavia's better off hearing about this from someone else," he muttered eventually.

"That is your choice, Heda," Echo said, although she could hear the skepticism in her own voice.

* * *

They stopped just before sunrise for a meal and a quick rest. The rain had lessened as they travelled and here, under the thick branches of the forest, it was more a musical backdrop in the canopy above than a physical presence. Bellamy closed his eyes against the muted greys of pre-dawn, listening to Earth wake up. This was something he had lost in the move to Camp Jaha. It was disconcerting to discover just how deeply these tiny sounds had crept into his psyche. He had lived without them for his first two decades, but after only a month on Earth they felt as important to him as clothing or shelter. Water sliding off pine needles overhead, the high sharp call of spring frogs nearby, a skittering as something small and grey and cautious raced up a tree trunk to escape Echo's bow and arrow… He let the symphony of the forest lull him into a quiet memory.

"You're smiling," Echo said. She had given up on hunting for now and was focused on roasting some kind of edible root over their small campfire.

"Is that a problem?"

"Not a problem, just rare enough to deserve comment."

"I was thinking of…" of a trip through rainy woods, half a year and seven lifetimes ago. Of a stubborn blonde traveling companion and her fierce determination to save him from his own past.

"… of Clarke." Bellamy shifted slightly, until he could reach his pack. He pulled the journal out and opened to one of the pages, showing it to Echo. A collection of white, multi-petaled flowers floated on broad leaves in the watery foreground; several small wooden huts on stilts hovered behind them, mostly in shadow. Fog, or perhaps smoke, obscured any humans that may have been present.

"What can you tell me about this?"

Echo shuddered slightly. "Branwadageda."

"Branwada. That means 'foolish', right?"

"It does. Or just 'bad'. Branwada is bad to drink – it will make you sick. The Branwadakru live in the swamps south of here. They are not fools, and not evil, but they do make some people uncomfortable."

"And Clarke went there." Every time he said her name, it felt easier. She felt more real. He tried not to think about that too much, just in case.

"She did. She was there much longer than she expected... But that is normal for visitors to Branwadageda. Some say it's the flowers, some say it's the air. Either way, it has a reputation as a place people go to forget."

Clarke could have used a little forgetting, Bellamy thought. But she probably wouldn't have liked it very much.

"Do you think it's true? They forget?"

"Not really. I've seen people who come back. It's more like… a fog. Like in the picture. They say when you're with the Branwadakru, you don't hurt as much. You don't feel _anything_ as much."

"That must have been tempting," he admitted. "But it also doesn't sound like Clarke."

"When she was telling us the story, she said she went searching for herbs. She said the legends reminded her of a medicine used by Skaikru healers to stop pain."

"…Morphine, maybe?"

"I don't remember the name. But she said as soon as she arrived, she changed. Time was less important, her past was less important." Echo stabbed at one of the roots with her knife and offered it to Bellamy.

"Wait, I don't understand. What made her leave?"

Echo's shoulders curled inward. "It's quite sad. A little boy, one of the Branwadakru, was brought to her with a severe injury. She said by then she had very nearly lost what it meant to be a healer, and the boy suffered needlessly as a result."

"Oh god, Clarke…" It would have been the worst of all possible scenarios. Bellamy felt something hard and sharp stab through his chest. "The little boy, did he, um…"

Echo rescued him from the question. "He did not survive."

Bellamy jumped up, the food forgotten. _Not like this,_ she should not have spent her time away like this. It was all wrong. He crossed to the other side of the fire so Echo would not see his face as he wrestled with his guilt.

"I am so sorry, Bellamy."

"No. Don't be."

"But I hadn't realized before…" Echo spoke in a whisper, closer than he expected. Her long fingers wrapped around his bicep, an attempt at comfort that was somehow both terribly inadequate and far too much. "She's not _just_ a friend, is she?"

"She's… a partner…" _She's the sun. She's my way back from the darkness._

"She left that evening, after she had finished helping the parents with the body."

_Of course she did._

"We're wasting daylight. It's time to go," Bellamy growled in response.

* * *

*Mounonripa: "_Mounon_" = "Mountain Men" and "_Ripa_" = "killer". Welcome to Clarke's Grounder nickname. :-)


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** _My beta (the amazing and glorious MarinaBlack1) and I have gone back and forth on my inclusion of Trigedasleng in this chapter. I've decided to keep it, with translations in the notes at the bottom. PLEASE NOTE it is done on purpose, to help us understand Bellamy's perspective in these (and subsequent) scenes._**  
**

_**A/N2:** I love you all. THANK YOU for every note, every review, every smiley face._

* * *

There were people Jasper could sit with at meals (Octavia, Miller, Harper) and people he couldn't (Monty, Bellamy). It was fucking miserable. Jasper had a hard time explaining it to anyone else, but in his head the logic made perfect sense: he was owed the right to decide when enough time had passed. He had loved Maya. She had done nothing but help him and his people, and her death was the greatest tragedy in a sea of tragedies. Monty, Bellamy, and Clarke had ripped her from him and broken his heart, and only Jasper could say when it had healed enough... but Bellamy and Monty seemed determined to thwart him. Every single time he started feeling like he was just about (but not quite) ready to try taking that first step toward reconciliation, one of them would preempt him with a friendly smile and an invitation to sit at their table… and Jasper found himself hating them all over again.

Sometimes he almost wondered if he was partly to blame. That first day back, when no one could find Clarke anywhere and Bellamy, by contrast, had been everywhere at once – maybe Jasper had been too caught up in his own grief to realize how his friends were suffering too.

Maybe.

Or _maybe_ nobody at Camp Jaha had seemed to give a shit about Maya, or her father, or all those little kids they'd slaughtered, and that was just unacceptable.

Either way, it had gotten ugly and intractable and the only good thing was that neither Monty nor Bellamy had asked the others to choose sides. They could all be friends with the same people – they just couldn't be friends with each other anymore.

Now Jasper stood in the cramped makeshift dining hall, scanning for a safe seat. He spotted Raven and Wick at a small round table and started toward them, but something was off. Raven looked like maybe she'd been crying. As far as Jasper was concerned domestic disputes were a big no-thank-you and he veered abruptly, pretending he was on his way to the other end of the room.

But he couldn't do it. Raven had always been a friend to him. He couldn't brush her off just because she was sad, that wasn't something friends did… So Jasper doubled back.

"You're making me dizzy," Wick said. "Everything okay there, buddy?"

Jasper pulled out one of the extra chairs. "I don't know," the teen answered, angling his head toward Raven. "Is it?"

Raven shook her head. "Not really. Bellamy took off last night with that Grounder."

_Good,_ Jasper thought. Deep down in his gut a small voice pointed out that he didn't really mean it, but Jasper ignored that voice. "We survived without him before, we'll survive without him now."

"No Jasper, you don't understand." Wick went through the night's events quickly, Raven interrupting occasionally to clarify. By the time he finished, Raven had gotten over her tears and seemed ready for a fight.

"I'm sure he's going for Clarke," she declared. "And that's why I'm heading to Polis as soon as I can get packed."

"Raven. _Stop._" Wick looked frustrated. "You can't chase after Bellamy just because you think he's gone off the deep end. Even if he _is_ on a suicide run, you've got responsibilities here. You need to figure out the rest of Clarke's instructions. You have to take us to A.L.I.E."

Raven narrowed her eyes at Wick. "Us? Clarke didn't assign you to the mission."

"Yeah, well, lucky for you Clarke's not my boss. I already talked to Sinclair, and he agrees with me: yes, Monty's a genius, and sure, mechanics have their uses – but if you really want to take out a nuclear weapon, you should have an ace engineer on the team."

"Uh-huh... But instead I'll just have to make do with you, is that it?"

Wick laughed. "Something like that, yes."

Jasper cut in before the flirting got out of hand. "Hey, if people are allowed to volunteer, I'm coming too."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Raven said. "It's… Monty, you know…"

"Right. Sure. Obviously. Can't have me around, screwing up everything for the genius. He's got to focus on all that death and destruction, right?" He had wanted to make it a joke, but there was just too much damn truth in it to be funny. "You know, suddenly I'm not that hungry." Jasper stood to go, but Raven's hand shot out, gripping his shirtsleeve.

"No. You're right," she said, staring at him intently. "You're totally right. You and Monty need to get past this. You _should_ come."

* * *

Bellamy adjusted his pace to match Echo's. She looked up at him, a shrewd smile curling the corners of her mouth. He frowned in response before bending slightly so his voice would not carry through the trees.

"How long have you known?"

"That we're being followed? Almost an hour. How long have _you_ known?"

"Not quite that long," he admitted, and Echo grinned.

"Belomi kom Skaikru, I expected better of you," she teased.

"Hey, whoever it is, they're good." Bellamy tried not to sound too defensive.

"Very." Echo ran one hand over her brow. The rain had drifted North for now, leaving the mid-day sticky and warm. Lower elevations were cool but as the pair crested each hill, the air thickened until breathing was its own form of exercise. Bellamy watched Echo scan the woods as they moved, and realized she was searching for a strategic advantage – higher ground, a defensible position, anything that might give them an edge in a fight.

"I have my rifle," he pointed out. Echo flinched, reminding Bellamy of just how much the Grounders still distrusted guns.

"I'd like to save that option for now. We don't even know who - or what – is following us."

Bellamy grunted but ceded the point. When they happened upon a steep rocky hillside Echo darted quickly among the boulders, and he smiled to himself. It was a good choice; if they could get high enough, they would be well positioned to defend themselves from whoever appeared.

Echo settled into a narrow gap between two large boulders, notched an arrow onto her bow, and grew quiet. Listening. After several minutes of inactivity, Bellamy grew restless and began exploring their impromptu stronghold. He had just rounded one particularly large stone and discovered a shallow cave hidden behind it, when Echo cursed softly and called his name.

"Not who, after all. _What_," she spat when he reappeared. "Look there," and she pointed toward the base of a tall spruce. Bellamy squinted at the area until he identified two slightly darker shapes within the tree's broad shadow.

"Are they animals?"

"Not exactly," Echo confessed. "They're outcasts. When children are born with… defects, we send them out. It is the best thing to do. They would not survive long in our world."

"Really? Because these two obviously did. Seems like your system needs to be re-examined."

"Sure, there are always some who make it. That does not mean our ways are wrong." Now it was her turn to sound defensive.

"No, that's not true." As he spoke, Bellamy's agitation increased. "They're _babies_, Echo. They've done nothing to deserve death! They should have a _chance,_ at least." Lovejoy's child swam up at him through grey memories: eager smile, bright eyes, honey-brown hair begging for a father's hand to tousle it gently at bedtime. Bellamy tried to push the nightmare away. He failed.

"It's not about them. It's about keeping our blood safe." Echo's quiet response made Bellamy feel ill. It was the worst kind of logic. It was the kind of logic that forced mothers to hide children under the floor. It was Ark logic.

"Not good enough." He stood, hands raised to show he was unarmed, and called to the pair at the bottom of the hill in Trigedasleng: "Heya!"

_"Yu na jak osir dina op?"_

"… Shit." Bellamy had no idea what they were saying. He turned to Echo for help, but she sat back with a smirk, waiting to see what he would do next. Bellamy searched through the vocabulary Lincoln had taught him, scraping together a hasty reply. _Dina_ meant "food" – maybe they were hungry.

_"Ai laik Belomi kom Skaikru, en ai… ste… yu dina," _he knew he got it wrong when Echo started laughing outright.

"Enough, heda. You just told them you're their next meal. I'll take it from here." She stood to intervene but one of the people at the bottom answered in broken English.

"Skaikru, huh? Your Trigedasleng so piss-bad!" The man's partner laughed. "I say: you try to take we's food?"

It wasn't the response Bellamy had expected. "What food?" he called back.

"Phemus! Fool! Don't say we got food!"

"Piss off. I say nothing, fool!"

Bellamy turned back to Echo, but she was staring down the hill in surprise.

"We have plenty," he called. "We're not here to steal yours." Echo hissed at the confession. Below, a rush of eager Trigedasleng followed. Bellamy tried to understand, but it was too rushed, not like Lincoln's carefully enunciated lessons.

_"Yu beda teik ai jak emo dina op, Remus!"_

_"Em pleni!"_ Echo shouted suddenly, and Bellamy knew whatever was being said, it wasn't friendly. _"Ai laik trikru gona, en dison skaikru gona ste yuj!"_

"What the hell is happening?" Bellamy murmured. Echo growled at him, but offered a whispered explanation nonetheless.

"They were planning to jump us for our food. I said we're warriors; they won't dare attack now." Below them, Echo's news was having the desired effect.

"Shit! Phemus, you get we killed now, sure!

"Nobody has to die," Bellamy pointed out. "We're just passing through."

"I like he," the one called Remus laughed. "Hey, Skaikru gona! We all share food, then we's friends, okay?"

* * *

Timo stepped in front of Raven as she was heading for Sinclair's work tent.

"Hey there, killer," she greeted him with a grin. The grounder warrior smiled briefly at the friendly abuse, but his more typical half-frown returned almost immediately.

"I want to go too." First Jasper, now Timo… was the whole camp trying to come with them?

"Oh, Timo, I don't know…" Raven liked him; the reformed Reaper was older than Lincoln, his skin darker and more heavily tattooed, but they both carried themselves with a surprising grace. And both seemed far too gentle to be warriors.

"I can hunt, I can protect you."

"I'm sure that's true, but has Abby cleared you yet? A few of the others relapsed just last week, you know."

"I know. I'm stronger than they were. I _need_ to be useful, Raven." It was one of the longest speeches Raven had ever heard from Timo. Her mouth twisted to the side as she considered him carefully.

"Yeah, okay. Couldn't hurt to have a little more muscle on hand just in case, right? We leave in thirty minutes. Be ready at the main gate, or I'll leave without you." For a moment Raven thought Timo was going to grab her in a grateful hug, but instead he just smiled broadly – the best smile she had seen on him since Abby and Octavia first brought the Reapers back to Camp for detox.

"Raven?" Sinclair's voice from just inside the tent reminded her of her meeting, and she waved goodbye to Timo before stepping through the open doorway to find the chief engineer standing protectively in front of his workbench.

"Hey boss, you wanted to see me?"

"Yes. Wick and I have something for you. We wanted to put it through some more tests but it seems we've run out of time for that." Sinclair shifted to the side, sweeping his arm over the workbench as he revealed a new brace for Raven's leg. It was hideous: clunky, heavier-looking than her current model, and obviously engineered to within an inch of its life.

"It's a… huh. Okay." Raven wished Kyle were here. She could give Kyle shit for bad design. Sinclair was another matter. "I think… it's very…"

"Alright, alright, it's ugly, we know! We weren't worried about aesthetics, we were thinking about... _distance_." Something like youthful excitement glowed in Sinclair's friendly brown eyes as he walked around the device. "Pneumatics to simulate a more natural gait, counter-balanced for better weight distribution, and Wick even rigged it to capture your kinetic energy and convert it to electric for a little extra boost whenever you're battling muscle fatigue. We also customized the fittings to reduce pinch and friction." He feigned ignorance. "Wick has a surprisingly good memory for the circumference of your leg."

Raven tried not to cry as she hugged Sinclair, but failed miserably.

"It's really damn beautiful," she choked into his shoulder. What she meant to say was: _I don't know what it feels like to have a father, but I bet it feels like this._

"Yeah, well. You better bring it back to me in one piece," Sinclair huffed. He hoped Raven heard the other part: _Come back in one piece, kiddo._

* * *

Remus, the older twin, was blind in his left eye. Phemus wore a patch over his right, and refused to remove it because, as Remus explained, people usually became ill at the sight. Both men had too few fingers on one hand, and one of them – it got confusing remembering who was who after a while – happily pulled off a boot to reveal his extra toe. Bellamy and Echo sat on a mossy log near the small fire the brothers had built, Echo twitchy with the expectation of an impending ambush, Bellamy fascinated and slightly disturbed at the same time.

The meal was filling but unimaginative, and the brothers talked nonstop. Echo translated whenever they got too excited and slipped into Trigedasleng. Bellamy was grateful; while the twins' English was not great, it was miles ahead of his Grounder. She was clearly surprised to learn their hosts were not true outcasts. They had been born to exiled parents – one of several families living in a small village of their own not far from tondc. Bellamy raised an eyebrow at her, tempted to say "I told you so" but suppressing the urge for now.

"Are there other exile communities?" he asked instead, and the twins laughed. More than anyone realized, they said. The outcasts knew how to be quieter than deer, to move faster than warriors. According to them, the Forest Clan did not even realize how often they were being watched. These days almost all the defective children were scooped up and taken to these secret villages within an hour of being abandoned. There, they were adopted by the entire community and taught from toddlerhood never to reveal themselves near the Forest Clan people. Bellamy shivered at the idea of all those children leading a shadow existence. Echo's face, pale with shock, indicated she was as overwhelmed by the news as he.

"Trikru thinks we's young ones is weak," Phemus announced. He looked at Echo. "We's _yuj_. Strong," he translated with a quick smile at Bellamy before turning back to frown at Echo. His tone changed, his face darkening with anger and resentment.

"We's strong. And we's lots. Watch out, gona. One day soon… _osir na zog raun, osir breik au. Den, yo sou na bants._"

Echo jumped up, pulling two knives from the waistband of her pants and hissing at Bellamy to get back. He rose but stayed by the log.

"Put the damn knives away!" he ordered.

"Yeh, put the damn knives away!" Remus parroted. He was standing now too, reaching for a spear leaning against a nearby tree.

"Bellamy, let's go. There's no way to be friends with these… _things_."

Bellamy, completely lost, held his hands up palms out and chose his words carefully. "Whatever just happened, let's talk about it," he tried. Peace was fucking hard work, but he tried. Clarke would have been proud of him, for how hard he tried not to let death happen here.

"No more talking! He just declared war on my people!" Echo growled. Gone was the easy posture of their morning hike; she held herself like a wild creature crouched to strike.

"Yeh, fights then? Okay," Phemus grinned. His mouth lacked enough teeth to make it a friendly gesture, and he grabbed the small axe that had been used to chop up firewood earlier. "She tell you, Skaikru gona? We eat the dead? She's spichen, she tell you that. Lying. Trikru gona always lying."

Bellamy turned horrified eyes on Echo. "Cannibalism?"

"…There are rumors…"

"No, gona. We's just kill you, not eat you. _Den ai jak yo dina op, Skaikru gona._" Phemus grinned. "I's take you food, after all."

Echo was fast. Both knives had left her fingers before Bellamy could draw his gun. But the twins really _were_ faster. They twisted to the side; Remus avoided one blade completely and the other plunged deeply into Phemus' fleshy arm. He let out a small grunt of surprise and pain; Remus paused to see what was wrong. A wordless roar erupted. When he looked back at Echo, his face had been transformed by rage. He hefted his spear and took a step toward her... but by then Bellamy had settled his rifle against his shoulder. He aimed for a knee, squeezing the trigger gently. Remus collapsed, cried out for his brother as he fell, and Phemus looked at Bellamy. Furious.

"Hurt my_ brother?!_ Now you die!" He lunged forward and Bellamy realized his rifle was useless at such close range.

"Dammit!" Bellamy dropped his rifle, grabbing blindly for the pistol hidden at his waist as Phemus bore down on him. Just before they collided, Phemus and his axe a blurred perversion of humanity, Bellamy freed his gun and raised it high, firing three quick shots point-blank into the face of his attacker.

Momentum continued to propel the now-eyeless corpse forward, and Bellamy fell under the weight of his attacker's body.

"Shit! Echo?" He struggled free and scrambled over the green forest floor to his rifle, part of his brain searching for Echo's body as he moved through the sudden silence.

"Echo!" Remus must have gotten her. He had to be here somewhere... He had to die.

"Heda!" Bellamy looked up and saw her, crouched beside the body of the older twin, retrieving an arrow from his throat. "We have to leave. _Now_." Bellamy felt relief pour over him, temporarily weakening his limbs.

"Wait, Echo, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Let's _go_," she urged. Bellamy paused. If the men's stories were true; if outcasts were always out here, quietly watching…

"Yes. Let's go." Bellamy hoisted the rifle onto his left shoulder and slid the handgun back into place at his waist. He waited until Echo was a few steps ahead before grabbing a scrap of fabric off one of the fallen twins and wrapping it hastily around the deep, angry red gash in his forearm.

Then he jogged forward, as eager as she to get away from the smell of death already building in the warm damp air.

* * *

**Okay... so. Thoughts? Let me know!**

**(And as promised, translations if you're interested)  
**_Yu na jak osir dina op? _= Are you going to take our food?  
_Ai laik Belomi kom Skaikru, en ai… ste… yu dina. _= I'm Bellamy of the Sky People and I… is... your food.  
_Yu beda teik ai jak emo dina op, Remus! _= You should let me take THEIR food, Remus!  
_Em pleni! _= That's enough!  
_Ai laik trikru gona, en dison skaikru gona ste yuj! _= I'm a Woods Clan Warrior, and this Sky People warrior is strong!  
_Osir na zog raun, osir na breik au. Den, yo sou na bants. _= We're going to attack, and we'll be free. Then you (Woods Clan) will leave.  
_Den ai jak yo dina op, Skaikru gona. _= Then I'll take your food, Sky People warrior.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N:** MarinaBlack1 is EPIC. She is my goddess. I adore her and worship at her altar and you should, too. I also highly recommend the worship of Persepholily if you have the chance. These ladies make me look SO much better than I would otherwise._

_**A/N2:** Thank you all for the **great feedback** on the last chapter! I am so glad to have such an AMAZING group reading my story. Glad, and humbled. You are all just wonderful human beings.  
_

_**A/N3:** PLEASE TRUST ME. WHATEVER YOUR FEELINGS ABOUT THIS CHAPTER, PLEASE TRUST ME._

* * *

Raven's team (although she wasn't sure she was ready to think of them that way just yet) gathered outside the dropship. Most were subdued, memories – the good kind, the other kind – filling the air around them. Only Kyle and Timo had a less personal attachment to the scarred ship and the ground on which it sat. Raven caught Jasper peeking at Miller and Monty whenever he thought no one was watching, regret and pain marring his features. Monroe stuck close to Octavia, seemingly adrift without Bellamy in charge; for a moment Raven let the tiny demon of self-doubt claw its way up her windpipe, cutting off her air. But Lincoln looked at her, gave a tiny nod as if he knew exactly what she was thinking but also knew she could do this, and Raven shoved her fear aside.

"Okay guys. Enough of the trip down memory lane. Let's move!" She glanced down at Clarke's map, partially filled in with Bellamy's notes, before striking a path through the woods. Lincoln and Timo settled in on either side of her, adopting a steady pace the group could maintain for hours if need be. There was something about the soft hum of Trigedasleng as it passed between them; Raven let her mind unfocus, let her body take over this early stage of the trip.

Behind her were Jasper and Harper, both silent, Jasper hyper-aware of the presence of Miller and Monty directly behind him. Monroe and Octavia had taken on the role of rear guards for now, and Kyle…

"Hey," he interrupted, peeking over Raven's shoulder to flash her an eager smile. "How's the super-leg?"

Raven frowned. "The what?"

"The super-leg. You know, your brace." He nodded knowingly. "It's pretty sweet, right?"

It _was_, actually. Despite its ungainly appearance when lying on a workbench, the brace was balanced so well she kept forgetting she was wearing it. The biggest problem, really, would be readjusting her gait to eliminate the limp that had become such habit. But Kyle would be insufferable if he knew the truth...

"I should really take a look at the measurements you used," she groused. "The calf's too tight."

"Gimme twelve seconds and a Phillips head," Kyle shot back. "It's fully adjustable. Nice try, Reyes." He laughed, but cut himself off abruptly. "Shit, were you serious? Here, let me… I have a kit…" he grabbed for his pack.

Raven rested one hand on his forearm. "I was – maybe – exaggerating. _A little_. It's actually a lot better than the old brace." Wick stared at her in mock horror.

"Did you just admit my design is amazing?"

"Well, better than – "

"Holy shit, I need to tell somebody. I need to tell _everybody!_"

"Hey, I never said – " but Kyle was on a roll.

"Excuse me!" he shouted, turning in a slow circle, "Dear… uh, planet! Raven Reyes, genius mechanic, just declared that she is in love with me – ooof!" he doubled over as Raven's arm caught him in the gut. "… Correction, she is in love with my sexy, sexy engineering skills!"

Raven rolled her eyes. And laughed.

* * *

Hours had passed, the sun was sinking behind them, and the air still felt as heavy and wet as it had when they first started. Wick, who insisted on checking in with Raven and Monty in turns, looked exhausted. He managed to hold it together until Lincoln moved back to talk with Octavia.

"So, when can we take a break?" Wick panted as soon as he thought Lincoln couldn't hear him. Timo shot him a look, and Wick shrugged. Timo was different, an ancient warrior pulled from another era; Wick's ego could handle judgement from him.

"_Seriously?"_ Raven sounded annoyed, but she looked worried. "Are you going to be dead weight on this trip, _Wick?_ Because I don't have a big enough brace to support you, too." She paused for a moment. "We'll stop in another hour."

"I can do that. An hour." He tried for silence. It lasted only a few minutes before he started again. "Look, I've just never been on an expedition before. It's kind of exciting, don't you think?"

"Hey, I was damn serious earlier. This isn't a vacation, Kyle. We're on a _mission_. You have to both put up _and_ shut up, man. And that starts with learning how to pace yourself."

As the pair bickered, Lincoln found Octavia walking with Jasper, who had taken over Monroe's guard position. Neither looked particularly happy, but both of them carried a perpetual anger too famous to require explanation. Lincoln wondered how long it would Octavia to soften her interpretation of Clarke's actions. Jasper… Lincoln suspected Jasper might actually have the more difficult path back to peace.

"Octavia, you look upset."

"Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to help if there's a threat to our people." It was if she had been waiting to share this with him, and now that she had the chance, she spoke quickly, passionately. "But I don't trust Clarke. She _must_ have some ulterior motive."

"Do you still believe only the worst of her?" Lincoln murmured. He stroked her cheek with his thumb as they walked.

"Maybe if she gave me a reason…"

"You know what she did for your people – "

"_Our _people," Octavia corrected.

" – our people, in Mount Weather. Does that not begin to undo some of the damage?"

"Not for me," she answered. "Clarke made shitty decisions when she was with Lexa, and she got stuck with the consequences. I don't pity her for that. I pity everyone who died as a result. She's not my leader, Lincoln. I don't owe her anything."

* * *

They stopped an hour later, as Raven had promised. Timo and Octavia grumbled about it being too early to make camp; Lincoln tried to soothe Octavia, but she was still prickly from earlier.

"Monty, how's the radio situation?" Raven called as she settled onto a log to adjust her brace. Wick crouched at her knee to help.

"Great," Monty answered with a grin. "The only problem I'm having right now is that someone back at Camp Jaha left a radio on, and I think we're picking up a… um… private moment?" He tossed the walky-talky to Raven and she turned the volume up with a grin. The team pulled closer, giggling at the unmistakable sound of two people whispering lovingly to each other.

"Who is it?" Miller asked. "I feel like I almost recognize that voice…"

"Holy shit, it's Dr. Griffin!" Harper chimed in. Raven flicked the radio off and scowled at the crowd.

"We don't know that for sure," she grunted. "Now get busy hunting, or we'll starve to death before we even have a chance of getting blown up by a nuclear warhead."

As the crowd dispersed, Wick paused in his work and stared up at Raven. "That was nice of you."

"Yeah, well. Abby's a good person. If she's getting some, then more power to her, man. But there's no need for these kids to eavesdrop." Raven put one hand on Wick's shoulder to stand, and he took advantage of their proximity to sneak a kiss. His lips were soft and hot and hungry, and Raven smiled as he ran one hand down her waist. Yes, he walked the fine line between charming and annoying – a lot – but it was kind of wonderful to know someone needed her this much. Especially when she had spent so many months needing other people.

"You know, with this brace you can stand without my support now," Wick whispered when she pulled back.

"Yeah, I know," she admitted, her gaze lingering on his mouth, tempted to continue...

"Raven," Lincoln called, beckoning the pair toward him, "Have you looked over the rest of Clarke's clues?"

"A bit, but I was so busy getting ready I didn't spend a lot of time on them. Why?"

"Well, Timo and I thought maybe we could help."

"Sure, the more the merrier. What have you got?"

"Murphy." Lincoln held up the page, on which had been sketched a surprisingly sympathetic portrait of John Murphy, glancing over his shoulder at some unseen object. His hair was longer, twisted off his face in tight rows, his eyes expressive and alive but also haunted. Raven had always thought Clarke didn't care for John, but here she seemed to take on his perspective, sharing with him a vision of a world poised to attack at all times. Staring into the face of Clarke's Murphy, it was easier to see why he felt the need to protect himself from everyone and everything at all times. Raven shuddered slightly.

"Water, water, everywhere, and all the boards did shrink; Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink," Wick read, his eyes darting over the words stretched along Murphy's jacket sleeve. "…What the hell does that mean?"

Timo and Lincoln turned to look at Raven.

"Guys, I'm a mechanic. This was a message for Bellamy, right? So we need someone who thinks like Bellamy."

"Octavia!" Wick called immediately.

"Yeah?"

"Water, water, everywhere…?"

"…Nor any drop to drink! The ancient mariner!" She excused herself from Jasper and strode over to their small group, brow furrowed.

"Oh good, the _answer_ makes less sense than the _riddle_," Wick said as he crossed his arms, the closest he ever came to grumpy.

"No. It's an old Earth poem," Octavia explained. "It's really long. About an old sailor on a doomed ship. There are all these terrible things that happen to the ship, and eventually everyone dies except him, and he almost goes mad."

The travelers stared at each other, uneasy.

"I liked it a lot better when I didn't know what it meant," Jasper chimed in from nearby.

* * *

Echo and Bellamy had not spoken in hours. At first it was out of need: a need to move quickly, to put distance between themselves and that terrible mistake; a need to listen for trouble. But as the forest thinned and their elevation dropped, the silence took on a different tone. It carried with it hurt feelings, unspoken accusations, guilt.

Echo did not say a word even when the sun sank behind them angry and red, burning the day's deaths into the bare skin on the back of Bellamy's neck. She pushed forward obsessively until the world was so dark and foreign she had no choice but to stop. Bellamy refused to break the silence either, certain of the battle that would ensue. Echo had fucked everything up back there, but he still needed her to take him to Clarke.

Wood was scarce out here on the plain. Echo did not bother with a fire; Bellamy went in search of kindling anyway. Perhaps out of habit, perhaps because he needed to put some distance between them, perhaps a bit of both. He felt Clarke's shadow as he moved, could almost hear her in his head, rationalizing his actions. He had been protecting Echo. He had tried to do the right thing first. He had done what he had to do, that was all…

Had she yet found a way to truly believe those same things about herself?

By the time he returned – he knew he had taken longer than necessary, but the solitude felt good – Echo had found something of her former self. She was the first to speak, asking if he needed help with the fire. Bellamy answered minimally, still unsettled.

They were both exhausted, but he offered to take the first guard shift. Echo had been traveling for days before arriving at Camp Jaha. As she stretched out on her back and turned her face to the cloudless night sky, she told Bellamy they would be in Polis tomorrow afternoon.

"Thank you." Once more he considered mentioning what had happened with the twins, but thought better of it. This quiet tension was fine for now.

"I _am_ sorry things did not work out as you'd hoped today," Echo offered. Bellamy sighed and reached into his bag, pulling out Clarke's journal. He ran his fingers over the cover once before opening it and turning to the picture of the dropship.

"It's already in the past," he said. "Regret doesn't help anyone." He turned the page until he found Clarke's sketch of the swamp, his heart breaking again for the little boy she couldn't save, and the pain it must have caused her. How had she dealt with that? Where had she gone when she left?

He continued on to the next series of sketches.

"The coast?" Bellamy asked. He looked up and found Echo had rolled onto her side, face resting on her hand as she watched him. Something like pity – but not quite – softened her features.

"The coast, yes. Luna is the leader there." Bellamy found the sketch with her name on it: a woman close to Abby's age, with long straight black hair free of the braids Bellamy had become so used to seeing on Grounder women. Her dark eyes glowed with kindness.

"What did Clarke say about her time with them?" Bellamy asked.

"She spent less time with Luna and her people than she did in the swamps, but I think she enjoyed it more. Clarke spoke of Luna the way a second might speak of the warrior who chose her: as a teacher, a friend, an example. Luna is famous among the Clans as a quiet woman. Her people pledged support for the Alliance but would not participate in battles, offering instead their healers, extra provisions, safe passage across the sea… Luna has power in her own way, but it is very different from Lexa's style. Despite that, they respect each other. Luna was also the one who gave Clarke Aiolos."

"Aiolos?" Bellamy tilted his head. "An unusual choice of name. Who is he?"

"I'm sure she must have a picture in there, she spoke of him too well. He was her horse," Echo explained. Bellamy smiled in understanding and turned to the right page. He knew almost nothing about large animals, but Aiolos seemed like the kind of creature Clarke would love. He had thick legs and a broad muzzle, a pale coat freckled with dark grey spots, and a white mane and tail. A more detailed sketch of his face revealed eyes of two different colors, one light, one dark. Echo was right: Clarke must have adored this animal. Pages were filled with close-up studies of his hooves, his muzzle, his ears. Aiolos, Greek keeper of the winds, assisting sailors on their journeys; he wondered if Clarke had chosen the name, or Luna.

"He was a coast pony," Echo continued. "They are sure-footed even in the sand, and Clarke said he was the gentlest horse she had ever ridden."

Something about the story felt wrong.

"Fuck, Echo, if you tell me he's gone too…"

The warrior sighed and closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, Bellamy. They were crossing the desert when they were attacked by Sanskavakru. Desert nomads."

"No, that doesn't make any sense. Jaha was rescued by those same people. He said they were generous hosts."

"Maybe some are. But others are focused solely on survival, and a horse like Aiolos – one who is healthy and used to living in the sands – well, that kind of animal is too valuable. Either as food or as transportation. Clarke never stood a chance."

The silence returned but it was different now, sad and heavy as Bellamy stared at the image of Clarke's beloved animal, losing himself in the gentle face. He heard Echo get up but ignored her, too busy hurting in ways he barely understood.

"Bellamy," Echo's voice was a whisper of sympathy by his ear. She knelt beside him, putting her hand over the sketchbook, blocking out those captured memories. "What if she… doesn't feel the same way?"

He shook his head at her, silent. There were assumptions being made here: Echo didn't know what she was talking about. He hadn't seen Clarke in months. He had no idea _how_ he –

But as she stared at him, those clever eyes reading every stubborn rebuttal and dismissing it as delusion, Bellamy knew she was asking the question precisely because he wouldn't.

"It doesn't matter. All that matters is making sure she's safe."

"So tomorrow… in Polis, if we find Clarke _is_ safe, if it turns out she and Lexa are together…"

"Fine. Good for her. She's been through too much, Echo. She deserves a chance at happiness."

They stared at each other.

"I think you're full of shit, Belomi kom Skaikru."

Echo leaned forward, still watching him, waiting for him to stop her but he didn't, maybe he didn't want to, and so her cold fingers brushed against his cheek and her warm lips pressed a cautious kiss onto his mouth and Bellamy sighed. When was the last time he had let anyone touch him this way?

…The day _she_ left.

The day she ripped his chest open, found his heart, scrawled her name across it and then walked away.

As Bellamy kissed Echo back he thought of that day, of every day since then, of the way he had woken each morning stupidly hoping _today _would be the day someone on guard duty would call out her name in a tone of excited relief. Of how he refused to give up on her even when the others had started talking in terms of survival, and the odds against her. Bellamy thought of the journal and wondered if there were other faces he had not found yet, the faces of her lovers.

"Ow!" Echo pulled back, jarring Bellamy into the present. She touched her bruised lip and stared at him.

"Shit. Did I hurt you?" His hands clutched her shoulders as he examined her face by the anemic light of the tiny fire.

"You bit me." She looked neither hurt nor angry. She looked disappointed perhaps, even sympathetic. Bellamy pulled her close again, into a hug and another long sigh.

"It was a bad idea," she admitted, her voice muffled slightly against his shoulder.

"…I'm sorry Echo," Bellamy whispered. "I really am."

* * *

_**(Hiding in corner: Don't be mad. If you can promise to be not mad, I can promise to give you the next chapter REALLY soon. Like, REALLY soon. Okay?)**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:** Let's just go ahead and repeat ALL the Author's Notes from the previous chapter, shall we? **MarinaBlack1** is the bomb and the best beta EVER and no you may not have her she is mine; **Persepholily** has been an incredible pal and invaluable resource on this piece; **don't hate me**; I love to hear from each of you and am definitely highly motivated to keep writing when I get such incredible feedback... Yup, that about covers it!**  
**_

* * *

Echo became increasingly tense as they approached Polis. She repeated her instructions to Bellamy compulsively. Grew distant, formal, almost deferential in her mannerisms. They had paused on the outskirts of town for a final review of what _was_ and was _not_ acceptable in the city, when Bellamy decided he'd had enough.

"Echo." He tried to catch her eye but she turned away. Exasperated, Bellamy curled his finger under her chin and drew her face back to his. "Hey. Last night was my fault."

"No, it wasn't. And that's not the problem anyway."

"Then what?"

"…Lexa is my Heda, Bellamy. We're arriving on the third day of a weeklong assembly of the Alliance. Whatever your plans are, whatever you hope or intend for this day… I think we both know I'm committing treason by bringing you into Polis."

It had crossed his mind. More than once. Bellamy swallowed hard.

"I made you a promise back in Mount Weather."

"I remember."

"You saved my life that day, and I still owe you for that. I won't let anything happen to you." He watched as she processed his words, rolled them over in her mind, weighed them against her knowledge of who he was. He saw grief build behind her eyes.

"I believe you believe that," she said, "But what could you do, against the power of the Commander? And... if it comes down to Clarke's life or mine, we both know it would not even be a choice."

Bellamy stepped back, stung. "No, that won't…" what the hell kind of war zone were they walking into?

"I've made my peace with it… Heda." She exhaled the last word, a quiet mournful breath.

Bellamy watched her, gratitude and regret mixing inside him uncomfortably. She was a good person, fierce and proud, the kind of person – maybe, if things had been different – if Clarke weren't _right_ there, so close he could feel the pull of her in his blood…

"Dammit Echo. I'm not going to let you die, okay? End of discussion." He looked back up at the strange metropolitan skyline, something out of their history texts, all sharp angles and tall shadows against a backdrop of angry grey clouds. "Come on. We have a party to crash."

* * *

Hiding their weapons was unnecessary, so they did not bother. Echo forced a joked about it, saying there was nowhere safer than a town in which everyone hated each other; Bellamy responded with a Cold War reference that was lost on her. But even though everyone was armed so nobody was a threat, Bellamy's strange clothes – and the rifle on his back – drew stares. He moved faster up the ancient brick boulevard and tried not to hear the whispers. No need for Echo's translations. He could tell this was not a warm welcome.

The afternoon sun splashed bright orange and yellow streaks onto the underbelly of those heavy storm clouds still blanketing the city. The light bled into the landscape as well, too beautiful for such an ominous day. At the heart of Polis an expansive brick building was still under construction… or perhaps reconstruction?

Echo elbowed Bellamy gently.

"Remember, let me – "

"Speak for me, yes, I get it," Bellamy huffed. He saw her roll her eyes, but did not comment.

A trio of warriors met Echo and Bellamy at the steps of the building. Echo walked forward, and Bellamy was startled when she opted for English instead of Trigedasleng.

"The Skaikru representative seeks entrance to this assembly. Let us pass!"

The warriors stared at each other, uncertain. "Skaigeda is not one of the allied nations."

"That is a lie. A peace agreement between Skaigeda and Trigeda occurred prior to the attack at Tondc. As a member of the Alliance, Skaigeda is allowed to send representatives to all assemblies."

A hurried conversation and a nervous glance at Bellamy's rifle, and one of the warriors disappeared inside to share this information.

"You will wait over there," one of the others ordered, pointing to a dark-skinned tree with a throng of huge pink blossoms weighing down its otherwise bare branches.

"I didn't know this was your plan," Bellamy murmured once they were safely shrouded beneath the overladen boughs.

"You want to live through this evening, you need to play your part too," Echo whispered back. "You're a leader, an equal to the others in the room. Don't take shit from anyone, including me." The clouds overhead, finally tired of holding on to so much moisture, sluiced water onto the city. Bellamy and Echo huddled closer under the magnolia's branches, grateful for even their slight protection.

_"Heya! Skaikru!"_ The warriors on the steps waved them over, and Bellamy let Echo lead him through the downpour and into Lexa's capital.

* * *

Clarke overheard one of Lexa's attendants whispering to her friend about representatives of Skaikru attending today's meeting, and felt a moment of panic.

_No._

Of all days, today was the wrong day for Abby and Kane to try for peace. The Arkers should just stay where they were, where nobody would bother them. Instead they always insisted on poking their noses everywhere.

She sought out the attendant, begging for more information, terrified at the prospect of hearing certain names, but the girl knew very little. Only that a pair had come, a young man and woman. Clarke nodded and thanked her, then sent her on her way with instructions to report back if she learned more.

A pair. Two anonymous Arkers who had probably just signed their own death sentences by showing up here today. Clarke paced, anxious, wondering if she could bring herself to let that happen to them. Two more lives added to the scales, two more deaths to scar into her shoulder. Should she stop it? She could, easily. Speech, or silence – Clarke knew she had to choose.

When Lexa walked into the small chambers just off the assembly room to see if she was ready, Clarke smiled and nodded, and kept the gossip to herself.

* * *

Bellamy's eyes widened at the scale of the space as they entered the main hall: a semicircular room with benches in tiers facing the center, large enough to hold at least a hundred visitors - maybe more. The room, like the rest of the building, was a mix of crumbling ancient construction and new work. It lent the space an air of vitality triumphant over decay. Bellamy wondered how calculated that was on Lexa's part.

The rest of the representatives were clustered in small groups, sharing stories and the occasional laugh. Bellamy felt the atmosphere change slowly as he and Echo searched for seats, as others realized who he was and told neighbors, as curious-cautious-malevolent eyes sought out this newest addition to their Alliance. Echo growled and reached for her knives; Bellamy nearly grabbed her arm but he saw the others defer, and figured the aggression was socially acceptable in these circumstances. He turned his attention back to his surroundings, trying to maintain an air of indifference.

"Are you really prepared for this to be the last thing you see before you die?" Echo whispered as she sank onto the bench next to him. He had chosen an upper seat in the far corner of the room, a good place from which to watch everyone – but nearly invisible to most.

"I am _not_ dying in here," Bellamy reminded her. "And neither are you." Perhaps it was a lie. Perhaps it didn't matter; she didn't believe him anyway.

* * *

The first time Lexa heard of the Skaigeda representatives was when someone told her as she and Clarke stood outside the main doors, waiting to be announced to the assembly.

"Did you know about this?" she demanded of Clarke.

"I just learned about it," Clarke answered honestly.

"What do they hope to accomplish here?" Lexa's green eyes narrowed as she tried to think like her opponents. Clarke looked away.

"Maybe they want peace," she suggested, and Lexa laughed at her.

"Clarke. You and I are not like most people. We understand and embrace sacrifice, even the sacrifice of those we care for." As she spoke, Lexa reached up and slid a stray lock of blonde hair behind Clarke's ear. "Most people are too scared to see the strength in such choices. And after, they cannot move on. They cling to it, letting the pain of the past blind them to a vision of the future. I don't trust the Skaikru people."

"Will you have them killed?" Clarke asked. She pushed down the tremor in her voice, thankful Lexa was too focused on her own concerns to notice.

"No, this is not the place for violence. We will watch them, and learn."

* * *

Lexa strode into the main hall alone. The assembled representatives of the allied clans rose, chanting _"Heda! Heda!"_ as she settled nonchalantly into her chair – a monstrous piece of furniture on a raised dais in the middle of the room. Bellamy watched, worried at the pounding of his heart. It felt too harsh and sudden, like he had held reality at bay for days and now time was catching up with him.

_"Em pleni!"_ Lexa called, all confident smiles, and the audience eventually settled. Bellamy turned to Echo; she nodded, leaning in to translate as Lexa continued.

"It's mostly opening remarks," Echo whispered. "She is thanking everyone for their work over the past two days, and…oh."

But Bellamy had caught the all-too-familiar name in the midst of Lexa's Trigedasleng. He sat forward on the bench, his body taught. A muscle in his jaw twitched and he searched for Clarke, wondering how much their time apart had changed her, wondering if he would no longer even recognize her.

"There," Echo whispered, pointing at the doorway through which Lexa had entered.

She was still Clarke. Bellamy sagged in relief. Her clothes were somehow less Grounder than he had expected: dark colors and faded blacks, but softer material: a well-worn shirt, a hooded jacket. Not the thick protective clothing of warriors. Her hair was pulled back in two thin braids instead of her typical twists. And her face… it had been so long since he had seen her free of bruises, stitches, blood. How had he forgotten the _shape_ of her face? Why had he wasted so much energy trying to free himself from her, when it was obvious even here – even in this foreign place, with its foreign language and its hall full of strangers – that she owned half his soul?

"Bellamy?" Echo placed a hand on his knee and he glanced at her. Guilt tugged at him – guilt over the confusion of last night, guilt over the resignation he saw in her features. She tilted her head slightly and continued translating, frowning at the sudden applause throughout the room.

"Lexa says Clarke has decided to leave the Sky People, and that she will be made an official member of the Woods Clan."

He closed his eyes. So that was it then. Well. She looked good, though; healthy. Less… broken. If this was where she could be those things, then this was the right place for her.

… But the Clarke Griffin he knew would not give up on her people. Time away, he understood. Abandoning them forever, not likely. Impossible, really. Something else was happening here, something he couldn't quite see yet. He _had_ _to_ believe in her.

"Do you want to leave?" Echo whispered.

Bellamy shook his head, adamant, just as Clarke stepped past Lexa to the front of the stage. Echo and the rest of the room faded when Clarke began speaking. Her rough alto voice warmed his blood, even if the language tripping lightly past her lips was unintelligible to him.

"Damn," Echo swore, "I missed the first… she thanks them for the welcome. She is happy to have this chance to speak to the members of the Alliance today. She has… a story to share? …She says in the days before the Battle of Mount Weather, a tragedy struck many of the clans, whose leaders had gathered in Tondc to prepare for battle."

The hall was whisper silent, everyone staring in confusion at Clarke, waiting for her to explain why she was bringing up that dark time. Icy dread stabbed at Bellamy's gut. He remembered Octavia's face as she told him what had happened to that village, Octavia's rage burning within her like its own small sun.

_Come on Clarke,_ he begged silently, _don't do this…_

Echo, oblivious, continued. "She says they had a man inside Mount Weather – oh, that's… she means _you._" Bellamy wondered if the flicker of pain he caught in Clarke's eyes as she spoke of him was real or imagined. He ran one hand through his curls in agitation, and nodded at Echo.

"She and Lexa knew, and didn't stop the attack," he explained quickly. Echo stared at him in disbelief. "What happens to her when this gets out?"

"It… I don't think Lexa will let that happen… look."

Behind Clarke, the Commander had blanched as the story continued. She had beckoned two attendants over and whispered something to them, then turned back to watch Clarke, her face blank. Inscrutable.

_Shit._

The warriors grabbed Clarke by the elbows, but she kept speaking, yelling to be heard as she was pulled from the dais. Lexa stepped forward with a smile Bellamy recognized, the placating smile of a politician. It was the kind of smile Ark councilors had worn as they patted his shoulder right before reading out Aurora's death sentence.

"It's all so fast, I – can't keep – up with – "

"Broad strokes, Echo," Bellamy urged.

"Uh, the bombing of Tondc was a tragedy, a terrible consequence of war, and the enemy was – " she grunted as a man in the audience wearing too many furs stood abruptly and began yelling. "…Stop your bullshit Heda, my sister died in the attack, let this one finish," Echo mumbled, her eyes flickering back to Lexa, whose smile never wavered. "She's telling him Clarke will be dealt with internally, and the Ice Nation does not need to involve its – no, wait," Clarke broke free and rushed to Lexa's side, and for a moment Echo struggled with two voices speaking at once before settling on translating Clarke's words. "Lexa made a pact with the Mountain Men. She says breaking the Skaikru Alliance to make a deal with those monsters proves the Commander is untrustworthy and does not deserve resp – "

But Clarke had switched to English, and Bellamy once more blocked everything else out as she screamed into the sudden chaos of the room.

"You deserve better! A leader who cares about your people as much as her own! Listen to me, please, I am Mounonripa! You _know _I speak the truth! It's – " The warrior at her left kicked the back of Clarke's leg, dropping her to a kneeling position. The one at her right struck her across the mouth.

There was no time to worry about the politics of the space. No time to weigh her life against the potential violence he was about to unleash. Bellamy launched himself down row after infinite row of Grounders, his thoughts, his heart, his body all working together to reach her, to end this nightmare moment.

"Bellamy!" Echo was right behind him, but he could not worry about that now. He had to get to Clarke.

* * *

She heard his name. Even over the noise of the room, the sound of someone calling out that name ricocheted inside Clarke's brain and pulled her toward him. She saw his eyes first: as dark, as hurt, as kind and passionate and determined as always. They caught hers and the chaos didn't matter, her own impending death didn't seem terrifying any more because at least she could have _this_, one last time.

"Whatever you were planning here, did it include an exit strategy?" he shouted at her by way of greeting as he ran across the dais, his baritone pouring over her hard and sweet.

The guard who had hit Clarke reached for his machete and Bellamy shot him. Clarke – and the others in the room – flinched at the sudden harsh sound of gunfire, giving Bellamy a moment of advantage. He took it. The second man fell with his own blade half-drawn, and then Bellamy was where he'd always belonged, at her side, staring down at her with one eyebrow raised irreverently. Around them Lexa's Alliance – a collection of barely concealed grudges and ancient rivalries – was crashing to the floor.

"I didn't think I'd get this far," Clarke answered honestly. He pressed his pistol into her weaponless hands, as intimate a moment as they could afford, and they turned for the nearest door with Echo in tow.

* * *

They almost made it. A few feet were all that separated them from the outer hall when Lexa appeared and Bellamy felt his chest tighten in irrational hatred. She had been far enough away before. Here, toe-to-toe, a vicious need for vengeance pushed up from deep within his gut. _This_ was the woman who had broken Clarke. _This_ was the face that had chased him through months of sleeplessness and mourning.

_"Sis emo op!"_ Lexa ordered and Indra stepped forward with half a dozen warriors. Echo yelled at them all in Trigedasleng, talking fast; even in another language, Bellamy recognized someone trying to make a desperate bargain.

"Enough, Echo," he murmured. He had made her a promise. She didn't deserve to be caught up in this.

She glared at him, spat at him, and turned back to Indra as if he had never existed.

* * *

Clarke listened to Echo's frantic negotiation, then glanced over at Bellamy. "You threatened her village?" she whispered in surprise. That didn't sound like the Bellamy of a few months ago.

"I – what? No! Is that what…?" He turned back to watch Echo and Lexa. "She's trying to save herself, Clarke. I didn't…"

"I believe you," she assured him.

"Stop talking, Skaikru," Indra growled. She grabbed their weapons and turned back to the Commander for permission to remove the prisoners. Lexa hesitated only briefly before nodding.

"But don't kill them yet," she ordered. "We will talk first." Clarke's heart buckled in on itself, watching Lexa stare at Bellamy with a calculated look.

The guards threw Bellamy into one small room and locked the door; Indra deposited Clarke in the empty room next door.

"You are too foolish, Mounonripa," the Trikru woman complained in a low voice that would not carry back through the open door. "You still have so much to learn. You're being guarded by warriors loyal to me, but you must be patient. Wait for me. I will only return when it's time to run. And when I do come back, be ready. Octavia's brother too. Understand?"

Clarke nodded, eyes wide. Indra snorted lightly and slipped away, locking the door behind her. As soon as she was gone, Clarke scrambled for the wall separating her from Bellamy. She banged on it, praying he would answer.

His voice was muffled, but unmistakable. "Clarke, stop pounding! I can hear you fine!" He muttered something under his breath. "Did they hurt you?"

"No. Bellamy… are you okay?"

Somehow, in the unexpected peace and shared seclusion of their incarceration, the question carried too much baggage. Clarke chewed at her lip, nervous, but he rallied after a thoughtful moment.

"I'll be better when I figure out how to escape."

"You may not have to." Clarke sighed and sat on the floor with her knees tucked to her chest, leaning one shoulder against the wall separating her from Bellamy. "Indra said something about coming back later. I think she's going to help us."

"Indra? Hm. I wondered." His thoughtful voice cut through the wall between them and Clarke was reminded of what it meant to have this man at her side. "Lincoln said she was the one who freed him, after the Battle at Mount Weather."

"So we trust her?"

Silence again.

"_Trust_ her? …I'm all out of trust, Clarke." She shuddered and closed her eyes, trying to block out the remembered face, the broken, pleading eyes. "But we'll do what she says, for now."


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N:** No need to mince words here... This chapter almost killed me. I am still not entirely convinced I don't hate it, even now. But **MarinaBlack1,** my stalwart (and in this case, brave) beta-for-life, assures me it's ready to go! Special thanks to **Persepholily**, as well, for her insight and support._

_**A/N2:** Wow, gang, the response to this piece has been PHENOMENAL. I am so grateful to have such wonderful readers, who consistently offer really insightful comments and analysis on each chapter! Honestly, thank you, each of you, for your incredible feedback. I am always so inspired by your words, that I can't help writing more!_

* * *

The initial joy of finding each other eventually faded in the face of their captivity; Clarke and Bellamy fell into a shared quiet that comforted with its familiarity. There were questions to ask, but the answers could wait until no wall separated them. Occasionally Bellamy punctuated the silence with updates on the contents of his impromptu prison. He seemed torn between putting faith in Indra and finding his own escape. The minutes stretched into an hour, then two, without any hint as to what might be transpiring outside.

Clarke opened her mouth to ask if he would read her the book he'd found in one of the cupboards (just for something to do, and to hear the low steady rumble of his speech) when he hushed her and moved away suddenly, his voice fading. The abrupt discovery that she did not want to let go of Bellamy all over again sent a shiver over Clarke's skin. She pressed her body against the wall, trying to hear, willing her blood to stop pounding so loudly through her body. She strained for some sound from the other room, some evidence that he was still present.

* * *

Lexa strode through the door and smiled to find Bellamy standing at the back wall, watching her carefully.

"Leave us," she ordered the pair of warriors flanking her. They glanced at each other, nervous. "Go! …He will not kill me," she assured them. Her eyes never left Bellamy's face.

Once they were alone, the Commander relaxed her normally perfect posture. She wandered to the table separating her from Bellamy, letting him wait while she toyed idly with the items there: an old book someone had found and saved for no apparent reason, a ceramic bowl with a long crack down the side, a canteen of water. She ran one slender finger around the rim of the bowl.

"You did not try to escape, or attack me – even with such an obvious weapon available. Interesting." Lexa hefted the dish and examined its delicate, faded blue pattern. Without warning she raised it overhead and threw it to the ground, the shattering sound a cruel surprise in this otherwise-still room. Large shards of deadly white and cobalt sprayed across the floor toward Bellamy. Lexa waited silently, daring him to reach for one of the makeshift knives.

Bellamy said nothing. Stared back at her.

"You're not thirsty?" she asked, holding up the canteen.

He crossed his arms. Squinted slightly.

After another long chilly minute, Lexa shrugged and turned the vessel upside down, letting the contents pour onto the floor. "Why did you come here, Bellamy?" She tossed the empty bottle into the corner of the room and rounded the table, drawing a bit closer to him.

"You don't need to speak to tell me things," she pointed out. "For example, I now know you came alone. A warrior with troops at his back would not hesitate to attack me. So while the rest of the Alliance is out there preparing for imminent battle with a hidden Skaikru army, _we _both know that will never happen." Lexa's green eyes narrowed slightly as she took a few more steps toward him.

"I also know Echo is lying. You would never threaten her village. All those innocent lives? No. You aren't that ruthless." It was clear she saw this as a character flaw. "My warriors will help Echo… _remember_ the truth – " Bellamy balked, and Lexa stopped, pleased to have gotten such a reaction.

"Tell me why I _shouldn't_ just kill you right here?" he growled, although he did not lift a hand toward her.

"Because you have questions. And I have answers."

"I don't need _your_ answers."

"I think you do. And of course there's Clarke."

Bellamy's nostrils flared. His hands, hanging at his sides, balled into fists: tight, white-knuckled.

Lexa tilted her head thoughtfully. "So it's true then. You _do_ care about her."

"She – " he stopped.

"I wonder… just _how_ strong are your feelings?" Lexa turned back to the table. "Belomi kom Skaikru, do you care enough to let her go?"

_Did he care… enough…?_ Bellamy almost laughed at the absurdity of the question.

He already _had_ let go, and more. He had let her let _him_ go, had let her send him into Mount Weather on the basis of a desperate, grief-soaked half-plan.

And after, he had watched her drag her wounded soul off into the woods to heal, while he stayed behind to clean up the rubble of their shared crime. He had not resented Clarke either the time or the space; envied her a bit, maybe, but only in those dark moments when he and Monty caught each other's eye in the dining hall, when Abby cornered him for yet another interrogation about her daughter's last words, when Octavia opened her mouth to reprise the same tired moral battle.

"You can be the hero," Lexa continued. "You can do what's best for Clarke, _and_ save an innocent life. Echo does not have to die tonight. _Leave,_ Bellamy. Take the girl with you." Her voice was low, soothing, almost hypnotic. "And Clarke… What has her life been so far, with _you_ at her side? You offer her nothing but endless violence and death. She will stay in Polis. I'm bringing peace to the clans. I know you cannot see – "

"No, it's not that. I just don't believe your motives."

"Peace. A world where Clarke could be safe."

"A world where you're in charge, you mean."

"There is no difference. Clarke is safest here with me. Disappear, and you guarantee her future."

Bellamy's fist slammed into the nearest wall.

"Stop fucking _bargaining_ with people's lives!" Lexa flinched but recovered quickly, assuming a carefully haughty expression as Bellamy spoke. His voice now was low, measured, a sharp contrast to that initial outburst. "I've known men and women like you my whole life, Lexa. You're smart, but you use people. You're no leader. You're a politician, and I won't play these games with you."

Lexa smiled, although there was no humor in her eyes. "Your words carry no weight here, Bellamy. If you do not leave peacefully tonight, then tomorrow you will face the consequences of your crimes against the Assembly. I would have no more say in the matter at that point."

"Of _course_ you would," he shot back. "It's just us here Lexa. Let's cut the bullshit. The truth is you're hiding behind tradition and custom to justify cruelty in the name of survival. I _can't _let you keep hurting people to consolidate your own power."

Lexa clasped her hands together and stared down at them. "Thank you for your honesty, Bellamy. Obviously, this threat from you changes everything. You and the traitor Echo will be executed in the morning." She started for the door; Bellamy stopped her, reeling slightly from her dramatic about-face.

"Wait! You said you have answers for me." He stood with one hand pressed against the wall as he spoke, as if drawing stability from it. As if it alone could save him from tomorrow.

Lexa nodded. "Ask."

"Why kill Echo? She's done nothing wrong."

"She lied to her commander. And in so doing, she revealed her weakness. I can never trust her again." Lexa raised one slender brow. "But that is not your real question."

Bellamy's jaw tightened. "Clarke…?"

When he whispered her name – part question, part hope, part fear – something within Lexa softened briefly. She did not, for the moment, look like the ambitious leader of a historic alliance. She looked like a young woman still hopeful for love. She also looked sad, and in that moment Bellamy could see just how alone Lexa really was.

"… She will be safe by my side, I promise you."

His laugh was short, harsh. "Guess what I think of your promises."

"And yet it's all I can offer."

"That's also not true. You could let her go."

"You plead for Echo and Clarke, and never for your own life? You _do_ have a large heart, Bellamy. I can see why she cares for you." Lexa moved toward him once more, close enough for him to grab her, to kill her with his bare hands if he chose. She searched his face. "But you see, that is her weakness. I can make her strong."

Bellamy recalled Lincoln's words, in reference to Octavia: _she was already strong_.

"Clarke doesn't need more strength, Lexa." He shook his head. "All she needs now is a chance to become whole again."

* * *

Clarke, crouched against the wall separating them, could just barely make out Lexa's response – that this world had no space for the kind of luxury Bellamy described – before a sob escaped her and she scrambled back, worried the sound had carried. She swiped at cheeks damp with tears and blew a steadying breath through pursed lips. She searched for calm the way Luna had taught her, owning the disquiet instead of running from it, accepting her emotions without giving in to them. She was almost successful; but the door opened and Lexa stepped inside, unraveling all Clarke's work.

The woman stared at each other, neither ready to speak yet. Lexa's normally serene expression was gone. In its place, the grief of betrayal clung to her features like a shadow. She spoke first.

"When you arrived in Polis yesterday, I wondered how I might find you. Were you here to seek revenge, which would reveal you as small-minded like the rest of them? Or were you able to see my actions through the lens of history, and understand why I had to put public duty over personal desire? I hoped for the second, of course, which was my mistake. It blinded me, so when you lied about your intentions, I was ready to believe you."

"Well, now you know. I carry grudges, Lexa."

"But Clarke, why?"

"You know _exactly_ why." Clarke frowned. "Did you really believe I would desert my own people for you? I've given up _everything_ for them!"

"I have sacrificed too, Clarke. It is the unavoidable price of power. Together, we –" Clarke held her hands up, stopping the verbal onslaught from this woman who had promised so much... and taken so much more.

"No! I don't want your kind of power!"

"But this?" Lexa waved her arm in the direction of the main hall. "You may have just destroyed my best chance at lasting peace!"

"You're wrong. _You_ did that Lexa, the minute you betrayed our alliance." Clarke's features darkened, but Lexa continued.

"You still have so much to learn, Clarke. I can teach you."

"I think I'm done with your lessons, _Heda_," Clarke declared.

Lexa frowned and stepped closer, her voice gentle, loving. "I don't believe that. I know you feel broken and lost right now, but I can help you. Together, we can find a way to be whole."

Clarke pulled back in shock. Leaden disgust filled her gut. Whatever she might have thought of this woman before, the discovery that Lexa would try to use Bellamy's words on her… Clarke turned her back for a moment. She was tempted to call Lexa on this lie too. Bellamy was right; the Commander would willingly do whatever it took to get her way. She had become too hard, and whatever hope there might once have been for her, Clarke could not see a path back to humanity for a soul as damaged as Lexa's.

"You know, I might have actually believed you before. But you taught me too well, Lexa. And here's the final lesson I'll ever need from you: _Heda ste spichen_. The Commander lies."

Lexa bit her lip. Her green eyes searched Clarke's blue ones for the spark that used to glow so freely in her presence. She swallowed painfully to find ice where fire had once been.

"I'm sorry you feel that way right now. Perhaps after you've had some time, you'll be able to see more clearly." Lexa leaned in, pressing a mournful kiss over Clarke's unyielding lips. Clarke felt her former partner's misery through the intimate touch, and despite her own anger and frustration she could also feel regret wash over her. It was heartbreaking to realize Lexa _wanted_ to be the kind of person Clarke needed... but could not herself see how she had long ago killed that soft part of herself, in order to survive the pain of Costia's death.

Lexa slipped out, locking the door behind her; Clarke slumped against it, all Luna's lectures on serenity a frail wisp of tattered white cloth against the storm raging within her.

* * *

Bellamy's fingers splayed across the minute cracks in the plaster separating him from Clarke. He did not bother calling to her; the conversation with Lexa had not been quiet, and he knew she would come to him when she was ready to share.

The good, selfless part of Bellamy agreed wholeheartedly with this line of reasoning. The pissed off, jealous part of Bellamy wanted to tell Clarke not to listen to Lexa, that she was dangerous, that she would turn her back on Clarke again just as quickly as she had the first time, that he was here, _right here,_ if she could just hold on a little longer he would find a way to get to her –

_"__Heya! Skaikru Heda! Yu gaf natrona? Em laik yun!" _

The door slammed closed as quickly as it had opened, and Bellamy was left staring at a bruised, bloody, half-dressed Echo.

"Hey Commander of the Sky People. You wanted the traitor? You can have her," Echo translated shakily before one of her legs buckled and she pitched to the side. Bellamy barely managed to catch her head as she fell, protecting it from the hard floor.

"Let's leave the translating to someone else for a while. Come here," Bellamy scooped her up and settled her in the corner where he had been sitting moments before. Once she was comfortable he slipped out of his jacket and draped it over her to keep her warm.

"Hey, Clarke?" he called softly.

"I'm still here. Nowhere else to be, really." She sounded worn, but not as bad as he had worried she might be. He allowed a quick laugh.

"Cute. Listen, I have a problem. Echo's here." He licked his lips and studied his new prison-mate carefully. "Looks like they tortured her. Lexa said something about an army from the Ark; I think they were trying to get information from her."

"It makes sense. Some of Lexa's people believe it's only a matter of time before the Skaigeda retaliate for what happened at Mount Weather."

"But how do I help her, Clarke?" he asked, looking down at his more immediate problem. The possibility of war, while a concern, was also commonplace enough at this point that Bellamy could afford to ignore it for now. Echo, by contrast, was impossible to ignore.

Clarke understood. People mattered first. "Does she have any broken bones?" she asked, clinical yet sympathetic, the way she always was with patients.

"I'm fine," Echo chimed in. "I've been through worse." She leaned her head back against the wall. "I'm just thirsty."

Bellamy looked at the damp puddle beside the table, where Lexa had dumped out the canteen of water. He cursed her under his breath.

"Echo, there's no more water. I'm sorry."

"She'll survive," Clarke promised him. "We just have to be patient."

"Clarke…" Bellamy sighed and rested his forehead against the cool wall. "I don't think Indra's coming. It's been hours."

"… Okay. So plan B. Do you have a plan B?"

"I have a broken bowl, an old book, and a wounded Grounder."

There was a brief silence from Clarke as she examined her room.

"One corner of the outside wall is leaking. I think there used to be a window there. I can try to clear the plaster…"

Hope – the weakest and yet most indestructible of human faults – kindled to life, somewhere deep in Bellamy's stomach. He banged his head lightly, once, on the wall. "Clarke… you should go."

"…What?"

"You can get out. Do it. Echo and I can keep them busy here, and – "

_"__Shut up."_ He froze. She never spoke to him like that, and certainly not in that voice. It almost sounded like she was close to panic, and Bellamy felt the sting of their separation, unable to see her face, read her features to know. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt for now.

"Was that Trigedas – "

"I am _not_ leaving without you, dammit!" And now Bellamy was certain a hint of hysteria had crept in.

"Okay. Hey, Clarke, it's okay. It was a bad plan, okay? I'll come up with something else." It was never going to work anyway, he admitted to himself. There was no way he could say goodbye to her _again_.

* * *

By the time the door flew open, Bellamy and Echo had fallen asleep propped against each other. They roused quickly, looking up to find Indra and Clarke staring at them.

"Here," Indra offered, her speech as clipped as ever, as she dumped weapons onto the table. Bellamy jumped up to grab his rifle and handgun, then stared at the mountain of blades still remaining. He looked over at Echo.

"All these are yours?" he asked, and she laughed. The brief rest had helped her tremendously.

"No," she clarified as she adjusted a quiver of arrows over her now-bare shoulder. "Indra must have… uh… convinced some of Lexa's warriors to donate to our cause."

Indra snorted and turned back to the dark hallway. Bellamy found two solid-looking hunting knives with decent sheaths. He glanced for a moment at the book still sitting there, tempted. It was such a rare discovery, and Homer's _The Odyssey_ deserved a better life than whatever awaited it here... but they were on the run, not collecting souvenirs. He grunted and turned away.

"Sleep well?" Clarke whispered with a quick lift of her eyebrow, as he settled himself at her side.

"Not really," he said, handing her one of the knives. He decided not to admit he hadn't slept well in a very long time. Besides, he knew what she was really asking. "Now, can we please get the fuck out of here?"

"Hell yes," Clarke's grim smile caught him by surprise; he grinned back. It felt... _good._

"It's time to go," Indra ordered, beckoning them out the door and down an empty, darkened hallway toward escape.


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N:** This chapter has not really been fully beta'd, although both MarinaBlack1 and Persepholily have read it and gave it the general green light... but at least you've been warned!  
_

_**A/N2:** I received a great note on this chapter, but it was anonymous so I can't respond to the person directly. It was in regards to a description of Clarke's physical appearance. I would ask you, Dear Readers, to remember that I write in a third person that is distinctly and purposefully NOT omniscient - in fact, the perspective is more closely that of the "unreliable narrator". Therefore, while I (a 5' 2.5" woman) would personally consider 5' 5" Clarke relatively tall, the characters we are following might not necessarily see her that way._

_**A/N3:** I am in AWE of your amazing support, gang. I cannot get over the feedback. THANK YOU. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! I love it, and if I am ever slightly delayed in replying to your comments it's only because of real life. (Today, for example, was an 11-hour workday, then dinner and dishes and laundry and the brownies my child "must" take to school tomorrow finally going into the oven at 10:00 p.m... sigh.)_ **  
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* * *

Running from Polis felt wrong. It felt like a fight unfinished. But Bellamy reminded himself of Clarke, of the very real danger she had just put herself in, and he swallowed back the frustration. He followed Indra. He checked in with Echo to make sure she was strong enough to keep moving. He kept an eye out for signs of pursuit. And always, he came back to Clarke.

She was so much smaller in person. Memory had grown her in his mind, made her taller, stronger, as much his physical equal as his intellectual and emotional one. But now, racing beside him down crumbling boulevards and across narrow alleys, Clarke's footsteps - lighter than his own, three for every two of his - beat back imagination to make space for reality. She was no giant: she was tiny and frail and incredibly mortal, fierce but with no real weight to her punches, a diminutive package of sheer will pushing her way through a huge deadly world. The idea turned their wet, dark escape into something altogether more terrifying for Bellamy.

At one point Indra pulled them through the precarious-looking doorway of an old building, and they searched out a hiding place with all the wordless determination of the already-damned. They squeezed into a tiny room under some stairs, not daring to breathe heavily for fear of being overheard.

The first touch was nothing, only a reminder to her that he was near. A reminder to himself that she was alive and real and at his side once more. His hand sought and found hers, and he barely registered that it had happened at all – until it was time to leave and she didn't let go.

Indra popped open the rotting cellar door. She and Echo crawled into the relative light of the hallway outside while in the darkness, Clarke gripped Bellamy's hand fiercely, shaking with more than just the chill of the rain outside.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice gruff, "It'll be alright." He didn't even really know what the fuck it was supposed to mean. It was an empty promise, but he could almost picture her face as she exhaled, once, long and slow through pursed lips. She released his hand and they joined the other two, already creeping back out of the abandoned house.

* * *

An hour outside of Polis, Echo heard something that made her order everyone to hide again. They scrambled for cover and Clarke dragged Bellamy with her behind some boulders. It turned out to be a false alarm, but in that tense silent minute she slipped her hand into his, twisting, twining her fingers between his for a surer grip.

* * *

They pushed on, following the storm because Indra said they would be more difficult to track in a downpour. Bellamy and Clarke reached out, grasped each other's hands, and this time they just… didn't let go. Why should they? They were running for their lives. In the darkness and heavy rain, they could only be sure of the other's continued presence in this simple, silent way.

* * *

"You okay?" Bellamy asked as Clarke settled against his side to rest. They were huddled in the space between two thick roots at the base of a massive tree. Echo and Indra had tucked themselves into the branches above, and were speaking in low, hushed Trigedasleng. The decision to stop had been Indra's; she and Echo seemed certain Lexa was still mired in the political fire started by Clarke's speech in Polis. The Commander would not waste soldiers on such an extended manhunt right now.

"I told you to go help Murphy and Jaha," Clarke offered by way of answer. There was probably more to say, but she did not have the energy for that fight tonight.

"Well, that's not how this works," he reminded her mildly. "You don't get to order me around. We're partners, remember?"

She nodded, a slight rub against his shoulder, and curled into him. "Thank you."

They grew quiet. They were getting to be really good at quiet. Bellamy reached out in the dark, settling his hand over Clarke's knee. His thumb traced a short path along the seam of her pants, right at the bend. She sighed, but it was all wrong, a hidden-strangled-sob kind of sigh.

"Clarke. You're allowed to _not_ be okay right now." His permission was just what she needed. When her tears started, quiet but unmistakable, the Trikru warriors overhead stilled. Bellamy kept his hand on Clarke's knee as she cried. Eventually Echo called down to ask if they needed help.

"No," Bellamy said. The women were barely even outlines in the dark above them. "We'll be fine." After their conversation resumed, Bellamy closed his eyes and leaned his own head back against the tree root.

"We _will_ be fine," he promised Clarke.

* * *

It was a hissing sound, the smell of burning flesh. It was Clarke's muffled groan of pain, and the realization of her absence. It was all the horror of a nightmare, and Bellamy was upright before his eyes had fully focused because this was no dream, this was happening.

He found Indra standing behind a kneeling, bra-clad Clarke, a sharp red-hot blade raised over the bare flesh of her intended victim's exposed back. Echo stood in front of them, gripping Clarke's wrists.

"What the _hell_?" Bellamy shoved Echo out of the way and pulled Clarke free, hugging her to his chest, ready to defend her from whatever was happening –

"Stop! Bellamy, I asked them to help!" Clarke pulled free of his arms and turned her back to him slightly.

A dozen rows of small, meticulous scars spread over her shoulders, hundreds of them marching neatly toward eternity. One for each death Clarke had wrought on Earth. A symbol of the weight she would always carry, and Bellamy ran calloused fingertips over them, a slow reverent gesture, and felt he was reading the names of the fallen carved into a living memorial. Clarke shuddered under his touch.

"If death has no meaning, life has no purpose," Bellamy said, recalling one of Lincoln's lessons.

"I need to add the ones who died yesterday."

"But I killed them."

"Because of me." She looked back at Indra and asked her to continue.

"…Wait." Bellamy inhaled deeply, then slid out of his jacket and shirt. He kneeled beside Clarke on the forest floor, reached for her hand, wove his fingers into hers. "Me too. And there are… two more," and his eyes flickered toward Echo, curious if she would let him claim both those deaths in the forest. She looked away, but nodded.

"Bellamy, you don't have to do this," Clarke whispered.

"Yes, I do." He held Clarke's gaze as Indra dug the tip of her knife into his shoulder.

"Luna said to focus on the dead, to own the pain," Clarke suggested when he flinched. Bellamy closed his eyes and tried to think of the grounders in the capital, but deeper memories tugged at him. Instead he remembered Mount Weather, remembered going back. He remembered Monty chasing after him, Monty insisting they go together, Monty's face as the elevator descended and the smell grew stronger. Bellamy remembered Monty retching when the doors opened on the aftermath, and pushing down his own desperate urge to flee the dead mountain. He remembered, as if watching scattered clips from an old film, carrying the bodies one by one into the elevator. Remembered finding certain faces, the ones impossible to ever heal from, no matter how many scars or rituals: Maya, Vincent, the rest of the resistance. President Wallace, smaller in death than seemed fair. Bellamy remembered his own insistence that he carry the children up himself, because Monty should never bear such a burden.

He broke on the memory of one tiny weightless body, still wearing its bright backpack and "Lovejoy" badge.

"Bellamy," Clarke's voice pulled at him. He looked up, and through the tears he found her, blurry but present, her blue eyes bright with worry.

"We buried them," he choked out. "Monty and I. We buried them all. It… seemed like the right thing to do." Clarke's hands flew to her face, covering her mouth.

"Oh my god."

"Clarke…" But she was already there, her slim arms – too slim, when had she last eaten well, how did she survive this planet day after day with a body this human and breakable? – circling his bare waist, her head tucked under his chin, and in the middle of the pre-dawn forest Bellamy let himself be weak because as it turned out she was actually so damn strong, strong enough for both of them.

* * *

After Bellamy had recovered, after they dressed and ate, he insisted they turn North in pursuit of Raven and Monty. Clarke agreed immediately, and wondered if her shame showed on her face: she should have known he would not abandon her plan, should have trusted him to make it work even if he would not lead the mission. Whether or not her guilt was visible though, hardly seemed to matter. Bellamy kept a hand on her elbow, her shoulder, the small of her back as they prepared for the day's journey. Maybe it should have bothered her… but when Clarke looked down at one point and discovered she was clinging to the strap of his pack, she knew this was going to be their new normal for a while.

She wasn't the only one who'd noticed. Clarke watched Echo as the day warmed and the sun turned from welcome ally to relentless enemy. The grounder warrior seemed uninterested in talking; when she did it was mostly to Indra, and exclusively in Trigedasleng. Clarke almost asked why, but at lunch there was a fast but very, very direct glance at Bellamy that oozed misery, and Clarke opted to keep her mouth shut and her eyes open for the rest of the day's travel.

The shape, texture, color of the world changed as they hiked. The forest thinned out again, the air felt drier, and they hit a hillier terrain. Clarke reached for Bellamy's outstretched hand at one point, letting him pull her up a particularly steep hillside. Once at the top, they took a moment to stare out over the valley below. Gone was the familiar black-green blanket of the forest, obscuring the terrain; a brighter, shinier shade of emerald rolled out below them, field after field of tall grass dotted through with trees. In the distance, a ribbon of shimmering yellow. The desert.

"The sands of time," Bellamy murmured, squeezing Clarke's hand.

"So you were able to figure them all out?"

"No," he admitted. "Some were harder than others."

Clarke stared up at him, suddenly concerned for their friends. "Then we'd better hurry."

* * *

After dinner, Echo rose and said good-bye first to Indra, then Clarke.

"Where are you going?" Clarke asked in Trigedasleng, confused. She liked Echo. When they had first run into each other a couple weeks ago, they had gotten along easily.

"I am going back to Polis," Echo answered in English. She very carefully did not look at Bellamy as she spoke. "Indra and I decided earlier. One of us to guide you, one to see what has become of the capital. I volunteered to return."

"Echo, why would you do that?" Bellamy stood, his voice giving away his own surprise and hurt. "It's too dangerous for you right now."

"But it's less painful," she sighed, and Clarke's brow wrinkled. Bellamy swore, and stepped closer to Echo, searching her face for more information.

"Don't go," he ordered her. Pleaded with her.

"You are a _great_ leader, Belomi kom Skaikru... But you are not my Heda." She leaned toward him, allowed a moment of indecision, then steeled herself and stole one final kiss. It was over almost before it had begun, and there was something incredibly sad about the moment, but Clarke felt her body tense as she waited to see how Bellamy would react.

He didn't.

"Mounonripa," Echo looked once more toward Clarke, "Keep him safe." She turned back the way they had come, moving quickly, as if chased by invisible demons.

* * *

There was a fight that night. Bellamy knew it was stupid, knew Clarke saw it too, and yet there was something inevitable about the argument. It started out innocently, Bellamy worrying out loud about Echo's fate.

"She's a warrior, Bellamy. Not a little girl." Clarke was right, but the tone of voice was all wrong.

"I _know_ that. She saved my life more than once." The answer was too sharp. He could tell. He could not un-say it.

"Is _that_ what it takes?" Clarke muttered to herself.

"What?"

"You heard me." She swallowed, blinked, and hardened her jaw. "Are you…?"

"... I'm not having this conversation with you," he warned, low and dangerous.

"It's fine, Bellamy. If you really care about her, you should go after her." He wondered if she even grasped the irony of her own words.

"Echo's been a good ally to both of us. It's _normal_ to want to know she'll be safe! It's _normal _to worry about the people you _care _about!"

They stared at each other in silence.

"You should never have come to Polis," Clarke finally declared, her mouth a tight line of anger. "It was the _weak_ choice."

"Clarke, _fuck!_" Bellamy turned from her, fire burning just under his skin.

Indra stepped in, told both of them to shut the hell up, and ordered Bellamy to help her get the campsite ready.

It was late by the time they found each other again.

"I didn't mean it," Clarke began, as close to an apology as she dared at the moment.

"It was never really a choice, Clarke," Bellamy stated softly, watching her face. He saw it: a glimmer of something relieved but also nervous, a microscopic smile at one corner of her mouth. As if she could not decide how much she was allowed to believe him.

Eventually she nodded, and it was enough.

They curled into each other at the base of a thick pine tree in the middle of a field, both silently fighting against exhausted bodies and racing thoughts.

* * *

Clarke woke first. Her legs were stiff, her neck felt crooked, her back was… she stopped herself. No need for a personal inventory of all the ways sleeping upright hurt. She carefully lifted Bellamy's hand from her leg and slipped from his side, not wanting to disturb him. He looked like he had not slept well in a while.

When she got back, he was caught in that disorienting moment between dream and reality, and she watched as he came awake to the discovery of her absence. His face when he thought she was gone… he, of all people, did not deserve to feel devastation like that. Shame clawed at her heart, and she wondered if he had been through this moment more than once in her absence. She called to him softly and crouched beside him, resting her hand on his shoulder.

"Are _you_ okay?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"… yeah." It wasn't true, she knew it wasn't. And that bothered her.

"Bellamy, maybe I don't deserve to ask more from you – in fact I'm sure I _don't_ deserve it – but can we not lie to each other, at least?"

"Fine. When you went to Polis, you already knew what you'd say, didn't you?" His abrupt question threw her. The way he avoided looking her in the eyes threw her more.

"I did."

"And you knew the consequences."

_Ah._ Clarke shifted slightly, kneeling in the soft pine needles, moving her hand from Bellamy's shoulder and picking absently at a short thread dangling from the outer seam of his pants, just above the knee.

"I did."

He shifted, leaning forward to watch her carefully now. "That's _not_ who you are, Clarke. You don't get to give up on all this, on _me_, just like that." If she had thought he looked distraught earlier, it was nothing compared to _this_ Bellamy, this shattered man and his barely-concealed grief clawing at her half-constructed walls.

"I didn't go there wanting to die," she clarified. "I'm not suicidal."

He breathed deeply, sagging back against the tree in relief. Clarke gave up on the exposed thread and laid down with her head on Bellamy's leg. She stared up at the thick green pine needles sheltering them. Dawn was setting the upper branches of the tree on fire.

"When I heard Skaikru representatives were in the audience, I tried not to hope it was you." Her voice was rough and thick, but she kept going. "I knew it _couldn't_ be, because you're supposed to be nearing the desert right now, but I hoped anyway."

"Clarke…"

"No, I have to finish. I didn't go there to die, but I knew I probably would. I had made my peace with the idea. But when I thought of you sitting in the audience, suddenly the possibility of escape felt… _less_ impossible. It felt more real."

Bellamy grabbed her hand again, and Clarke closed her eyes.

"The rest of the Alliance needed to know the truth about Lexa. They may still decide to follow her, I have no idea. But at least I'm not the keeper of her secrets anymore."

"Some will not care. But many others now see Lexa for what she is," Indra interrupted, dropping to the ground nearby. "Echo would say the same. A commander must be many things: fierce, cunning, ruthless. But there is no leadership without honor. Dishonesty, cowardice, disloyalty… these are not the qualities of a true leader. These are qualities that end in death."

* * *

Indra pushed hard and fast for the desert, perhaps still unsettled by the previous day's tensions. She seemed determined to keep conversation to a minimum, which suited Bellamy just fine. He was more comfortable sorting through his own thoughts in silence, anyway.

There were inevitable stops, though. At midday they paused beside a stream, hiding from the sun under the generously fragrant boughs of a flowering tree with smooth silver bark. Bellamy sprawled in the grass, letting the shocking beauty of the landscape seep into his pores. When he sat up in search of water, Clarke sighed, and Bellamy looked down at her expectantly; she seemed to be claiming his knee as her pillow on a semi-permanent basis now.

"Something on your mind?"

"I wish I had my journal," she said, wistful, eyeing the small pink blossoms overhead.

"Shit - Clarke, it's right here. I'm sorry." he grabbed his bag, found the slim book tucked at the bottom… and hesitated.

"Bellamy?" He had the book open, and Clarke shifted slightly to see what he was looking at. "Oh. Aiolos."

"Greek keeper of the winds," Bellamy added automatically, mesmerized by Clarke's fingers tracing lightly over the sketch.

"I know. I thought you'd like it." She was focused on the picture; she didn't notice the way Bellamy tensed at that, the way his gaze shifted to follow the curve and pull of her mouth as she spoke. "I loved those eyes, the dark and light. As if he knew we all carry them both inside us, and he had found peace with the idea. He was always so steady, Bellamy." She sighed. "I still miss him."

"I can tell."

Clarke shook her head and looked up from the page, trying to dislodge the sad memory.

"How's Monty?"

"He's mostly fine. He and Harper and Miller… They're tight."

"But not… Jasper."

Bellamy shrugged, tried to keep his voice hopeful. "Not yet. Soon, though, maybe." He licked his lips and changed the subject. "Monty and Raven were impressed by your knowledge of computer viruses."

"Really?" Clarke laughed, a sound so foreign and unexpected Bellamy felt his body react viscerally to the pleasure of it. "It's funny, that was Wells' thing. He always made me review with him for tests, and he used phrases like that all the time. Lucky for me a couple of them stuck."

"Lucky for all of us," Bellamy pointed out. "And lucky someone as smart as Monty was around to catch it."

"I knew he could do it. And I knew you'd pick up on the rest. Like 'watch your step,' that was an easy one," Clarke smiled confidently and pulled the journal closer. "I'll never forget your warning about Jasper's landmines."

... Bellamy froze.

"Landmines?"


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N: **Have I told you all lately how much I love you? I do. I really, truly do. Your comments and feedback are so inspiring. TRULY.**  
**_

_**A/N2: **Mad props to my glorious beta, MarinaBlack1, for her incredible work on this piece! And while we're spreading the love, please share a little with my second reader, Persepholily! I am forever grateful to this fandom (and our glorious leader, Jason - happy birthday, I know you're secret Bellarke trash and read all my fanfic, it's cool, bro) for filling my life with such beautiful people and beautiful friendships._

* * *

The flowering tree overhead, the thick green stretching out in all directions, the weight of Clarke's head on his thigh… reality took a backseat to nightmarish scenarios of mangled bodies, burning under a harsh desert sun.

"What do you mean, Jasper's landmines?" Bellamy asked, dizzy at the prospect that he had sent their friends – sent his sister – to their deaths.

"I thought you'd remember!" Clarke sat up quickly. She looked as scared, as disappointed in him as he felt.

"…Octavia's with them, Clarke."

"What? _No!_ She was supposed to stay behind! Bellamy - I just wanted to protect her. I _tried_ to keep her safe…" Something in her tone suggested Clarke was talking about more than just this mission. He decided to file the observation away for later, and focus on the present crisis. Bellamy shook his head and brushed his fingers over the back of Clarke's hand.

"I know Clarke. I do. But it's Octavia. She's always going to do whatever the hell she wants."

"Octavia and Lincoln are smart," Indra pointed out, and the couple under the tree jumped at her voice. They turned to find her striding up from the stream's edge, her refilled canteen already sweating in the valley's heat. "Have faith in them. If it is possible to survive the landmines, they will find a way."

Bellamy grabbed the journal again and stuffed it into his bag, fear and guilt propelling him up and forward.

"We've wasted too much time," he declared. "We need to warn them."

"Bellamy… we'd never make it."

He rounded on Clarke, ready to defy her fatalism, but she looked far too certain. He settled for a hard glare as he waited.

"The route we're on will bypass the landmines entirely," she explained. "We'd have to head further west, not northeast… and if they left when you did, they'll be arriving at the mine field today. We would never get to them in time."

Indra, less familiar with the desert region than Clarke, listened with the focus and care of a military strategist.

"Then it is settled. We will continue our current path, and intercept them after," she declared. Bellamy stared at both women, knowing they were right. Knowing he was outvoted. Knowing he would be responsible if they lost any more of their people.

"Dammit."

"Hey," Clarke gripped his arm, and pulled his attention to her determined face, her sincere mouth and sympathetic eyes. "We're with you," she promised. "We'll do whatever you need."

How easily she slid into his thoughts. How comfortably she formed herself around his fear, how gently she pried him open and inserted herself beside his heart as if she'd never left. He swallowed away a purely selfish response to her offer, and headed North without another word.

* * *

The desert was… demoralizing. And that was a generous term for it. Raven looked behind her at the distance they had already traveled. She wanted to cry. It felt like they'd been walking through this dry place with its strange winds and lifeless sand for at least a month.

"The sands of time, ha!" Kyle mumbled beside her. She had never seen him look so defeated.

"It's not that much farther," she promised him.

"You _literally_ have absolutely no idea how far it is," he grumbled. "But… I do appreciate your willingness to lie for my sake." He kissed her. It was unpleasant: paper-dry, gritty with the sand that scrubbed relentlessly over every inch of their skin, and Raven forced herself not to turn away. Tempers were short everywhere; no need to start a fight with Kyle over nothing.

Lincoln, Octavia, and Timo were clustered together, their own little band of nation-less exiles. They spoke in a kind of pidgin, Trigedasleng mixed with English. It was enough to offer Raven insight into their selected topic - the cold shoulder Trigedakru still showed reformed Reapers - but not so much that anyone else felt comfortable participating.

Behind them, Jasper and Monroe walked side-by-side, sharing a slightly awkward silence that had more to do with Miller, Monty, and Harper than anyone was very ready to say out loud. Back at Camp Jaha, there had been distractions pulling the teens in various directions. Miller had quickly assumed his old position at Bellamy's right hand, their wounded leader providing a convenient outlet for much of Miller's energy. Monty had been likewise sucked into the dark gravity of Bellamy's inner turmoil: the two men sought each other out whenever they craved silence but not solitude. Harper had focused on the Mount Weather survivors. Time together was piecemeal for the three friends, especially since Miller and Harper had so often felt obliged to give Jasper the sympathy and love he could not yet accept from Monty.

Now, without those diversions, it was increasingly clear there was more to the relationship between Miller, Monty, and Harper than anyone else had realized. Jasper seemed to be taking the revelation as a personal attack.

Raven knew she should talk to the pair. Bringing the former best friends along on this trip had been at least half her idea, but at this rate it seemed an exercise in futility. They _weren't_ talking; if anything the tension between them was bleeding over to the others.

"You know, if we could find a way to harness the chill factor between Monty and Jasper, we would have our own portable air conditioning system," Kyle whispered, reading her thoughts yet again.

"I know, I know. I'll deal with it."

"How? There aren't any moving parts here, Raven. It's not like doing repairs in Zero G – it's a lot more complicated. It's human emotions."

"What the fuck kind of supportive speech was _that?_" she snapped. "You're supposed to be cheering me on, Kyle!"

"Well that's dumb. But fine, if that's my job, then: You _go_, you! _Scare_ those boys into loving each other! If anyone can do it, you can!"

"Asshole."

"I've been called worse. By you, actually."

* * *

After they were freed from Mount Weather, Jasper had focused mostly on his fellow survivors. He clung to Maya's death fiercely and never really made an effort to learn what the rest of their friends had done in those weeks of separation. Monroe – always somehow "one of Bellamy's" and generally avoided at Camp Jaha – now started filling him in, clearly as eager for something to talk about as he.

"… and _then_ Murphy turned out to be way less of an asshole than we all thought. But he and Jaha took off, with a bunch of guys from Mecha and Alpha. Which I guess is where we're going, huh? To save them?"

"I think we're trying to save _everyone_," Jasper clarified.

"…Yeah, I get that," Monroe whispered. "I just… don't like to think of it that way. I don't think I'm very good at thinking like that."

"What do you mean?"

"It all feels too… big, Jasper. I get… freaked out. Like when the Grounders abandoned Clarke outside Mount Weather, and everyone just left her there. Alone. Lincoln tried to stay and help her, but he was the only one."

"You were following orders." Jasper frowned. He hadn't expected the conversation to end up here.

"Not really. There was no reason _not_ to stay with her. Maybe I could have helped her… I don't know, find a way in or something… but I panicked. I hate myself for that."

"What? No! Monroe, we've all made choices we regret. That's no reason to hate yourself." Jasper scowled. "There are plenty of other people to hate, anyway."

Monroe nodded and wiped at a tear that had started to fall despite the dehydration caused by their current location. "Yeah, you're right. Like the Grounder Commander. And that President Wallace guy."

"… President Wallace?"

"Yes. He's the one who arranged the deal with the Commander, so they'd take only their own people and leave Mount Weather alone." Monroe stopped for a moment, staring at Jasper in confusion. "How do you not know all this? Weren't you there with Clarke and Bellamy?"

"Not… exactly. I was busy trying to save our people."

"Yeah. That's what Clarke and Bellamy did. They saved our people."

"But Monroe, they killed a lot of others."

"Those weren't people," Monroe hissed, shivering. "They were vampires."

"Vampires?"

"It's an old Earth legend? About these monsters who look like regular people, but they can't be out in the sun or they'll die, and they live forever by drinking the blood of their victims… my grandmother used to tell me stories about them when I was little." She shrugged and stared down at the sand shifting underneath their feet. "As soon as we heard what the Mountain Men were doing, it's the first thing I thought of."

Jasper shook his head. "Your grandmother had awful taste in bedtime stories," he teased her. She laughed, and he felt... _good_, knowing he had made her happy for a moment.

* * *

The meadows were somehow endless. After a long day of hiking under ominous grey clouds that never amounted to actual rain, Clarke, Bellamy, and Indra still seemed barely halfway across the vast ocean of tall grass separating them from the desert. They tried to squeeze at least an extra mile or two into the last half hour of daylight, but eventually it was time to stop. Clarke suggested a nearby hill offering a reasonable view of the surrounding landscape. Despite its lack of protection from the elements the others agreed. There really were no other options, and the clouds were scattering, revealing a deep starry sky.

Indra took first watch, pacing the uncertain space between the darkness of night and the thin light of their campfire; Bellamy and Clarke laid down side by side, heads toward the warmth of the fire. At first it was quiet, but a tight guilt strangling Clarke finally forced her to speak.

"Octavia hates me," she began. She was surprised at the fear that accompanied those words. How would Bellamy react? Would he choose sides? Would he choose his _sister's_ side?

"She doesn't, actually," he murmured, sleep whispering along the edges of his words, gilding his deep voice.

"She was in Tondc when the missile struck," Clarke said. She tried not to look at him when she made that confession. The guilt-ridden part of her insisted. It moved her head for her, forced her face, her gaze, to his.

"I know." That tired quality still clung to his speech, but he was watching her with bright eyes. She shook her head at him, now frustrated by his lack of reaction.

"Bellamy, you don't understand. I went there to tell them all, and I could have – I _should_ have warned her." He reached across the foot of space separating them; hesitated briefly; ran a lock of her blonde hair between his fingers.

"I know."

"Lexa made it sound like we had no choice."

"It was a tactical decision. A wartime decision."

"That doesn't make it right."

"…I know."

"And… ?"

"And… Clarke, do you know who died in the Culling? The actual people?"

"No, _that_ was different. You couldn't predict the Ark would – "

"Ignorance is a shit excuse." He glared at her. "Anyway… I got the list from Kane a couple months ago. They volunteered, believe it or not. All three hundred twenty of them. I threw a radio into a river to save my sister and myself, and hundreds of people were forced to _choose_ suicide." He moved his hand away from her hair, plucking a blade of grass and shredding it with absentminded fingers. He shifted onto his back, his words directed skyward.

"One of them was Cecily Obote. She had just finished her guard training, but she volunteered for the Culling anyway. I… knew her. We were cadets together." Clarke forgot to exhale, listening with her whole body to Bellamy's quiet story. "She was the kind of person who always raised her hand first in class, so I shouldn't have been surprised, but still... it was a shock to see her name. And I had to ask myself if I was to blame for her decision."

"I don't…" Clarke let the comment fade. She intended to say she didn't understand, but the reality was more complicated. She was pretty damn sure she understood all too well; she just didn't want to.

"Cecily and I were close. As close as I ever got to anyone on the Ark. That probably wasn't fair to her, since I think I made her the kind of promises I could never have kept. And eventually it got to be too much, and I had to choose between her and my family... So I did what I had to do. What I always do. For Octavia."

First came the disorienting misplaced anger, and Clarke's irrational need to know everything about Cecily Obote and what she had been like. But then Clarke thought of Bellamy's face when he had asked about the decision to go to Polis. His concern over the possibility of Clarke's desire to end her own life. She felt sick, a kind of cold, dull nausea at putting him through the pain of that uncertainty, twice.

"You don't own Cecily's decision, Bellamy," Clarke offered. "If she volunteered, it's like you said. She did it because that's the kind of person she was."

Bellamy licked his lips and ran his hands through his hair, and Clarke forced herself to stay still, to give him space. She had gotten into too much trouble in the past, trying to fix these moments for people she cared about.

"Yeah."

"Hey." She gave in a little. She reached for his shoulder, and he turned to face her. "Bellamy, trust me on this." She smiled at him, and he smiled back. She resisted the urge to make up that last small distance remaining between them, and he sat up so quickly she flinched.

"I should relieve Indra." His voice was rougher than normal. He disappeared into the darkness.

* * *

The sun had not quite set, and already the air had cooled considerably. Raven did not want to repeat their mistake of the night before, stopping too late, suffering through a night so cold it felt like winter all over again. She ordered everyone to make camp where they were.

Octavia looked around. "Out here?" She did not bother hiding her scorn. "It's completely open. How the hell would we defend ourselves here?"

"Defend ourselves… From _what?_ We haven't even seen a rat, let alone another human! This is the ass-crack of the planet, Octavia. Whatever's out here, I'm pretty sure I can take it."

"Please don't say shit like that out loud," Kyle muttered. He had taken to eyeing her brace about an hour ago, right around the time it had developed a nerve-wracking squeak. "I think it's sand, by the way."

Raven ignored Octavia and Kyle, and assigned everyone to their tasks. Octavia, Timo, and Monroe were sent to scavenge for anything they might be able to burn in a fire. The others began preparing their meager food rations, determined to squeeze in a quick meal before sleep.

"Hey, Raven, I'm serious. I need to check out the super-leg," Kyle reminded her. "Sand will wreak havoc on the gears if I can't get it out in time."

"Okay, alright! God. I think I might be jealous of this monstrosity, the way you baby it."

Kyle grinned and bent to caress the contraption encircling Raven's leg. He whispered affectionately, "Don't listen to her, darling. She's just bitter."

"You two are ridiculous," Miller observed. "I can't decide if it's worse when you're bickering, or flirting."

"I can't even tell the difference any more," Monty piped up.

Raven was about to retort when they were all knocked sideways by an impossible flash of sound and light and heat and a brutal, painful shockwave. The world refused to recover for far too long, and Raven hated – truly hated, although only as a sort of temporary insanity – all explosives and the damage they wrought.

"Is everyone okay?" she shouted, trying to determine if she _was _actually yelling but had gone deaf, or if her voice had been ripped from her by the blast and she was now a mute. Thinking hurt, her mind moving far too sluggishly.

"Raven! What the hell just happened!" Kyle shouted in her face, clearly suffering the same effects as Raven herself. She felt her heart stutter back to life at the knowledge he had not been harmed.

"I think – "

"Landmines!" Jasper interrupted from nearby. "The desert is _mined_, that's what Clarke meant! 'Watch your step,' remember?"

Everyone stopped, looking around them at the night-blue landscape. They all seemed to come to the same realization at once.

"But mines only go off if you activate them," Monty began.

"So then who…?" Miller continued.

"Oh my god…" Raven closed her eyes against two nearly-simultaneous and equally horrible thoughts: first, what would happen to her if she had just let Octavia get blown up; and second, what kind of an asshole was she for thinking like that, for hoping it had been anyone but Bellamy's little sis –

Octavia's scream rang through the air, and Raven grimaced in disgust at how _much_ relief flooded her to hear that particular voice.

_ "MONROE!"_


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N: **I hope you all are continuing to enjoy this piece! Please let me know; it is always so inspiring to hear from readers, and encourages me to post more often. (And for those of you awaiting my response to your most recent comments: I AM sorry! I will respond soon, but this chapter just... NEEDED to happen!)**  
**_

_**A/N2: **Please show ALL the love and support for the epic MarinaBlack1. She deserves ALL of it. And please also give a big hug to Persepholily, who is serving as my second reader on this piece._

_**A/N3: **If you haven't figured out the theme of this particular story yet (my own little meta-mystery, a la Clarke's sketchbook) I suspect this chapter will resolve it for you. If not, and you're itching to know, ask me!**  
**_

* * *

Raven cursed the darkness shrouding her people. They had not dared move since Monroe's death, uncertain how extensive the mines were. She was grateful for Kyle; he continued working on her brace, as though determined to get this one job done.

"Okay, try it now."

She snorted. "How? I can't exactly walk around here, can I?"

"Raven…" He looked up and she realized he was crying.

"Oh, Kyle, no." Raven bent forward and kissed him tenderly. "We all miss her. It's okay."

"She was just a kid," he choked. "After everything at Mount Weather, I kind of thought maybe we would be allowed to live in peace."

She nodded. "That's what we're doing, Kyle. We're making sure there's peace… but nobody ever talks about how much peace actually _costs_. It's damn expensive. Just ask Finn."

"Or Monroe."

"Yeah." Raven sighed. "Or Monroe." She wrapped her arms around Kyle, and let the desolation of their situation overtake her for a moment.

* * *

Jasper hugged his legs to his chest, letting tears for Monroe soak through the fabric at his knees.

"Hey," a familiar voice called to him from nearby.

"Go away Monty." Jasper regretted the poor choice of words instantly. "No, I don't mean that. Obviously that would be suicide. Just… Leave me alone?"

"I don't want to. I miss you."

Jasper let a fresh mountain of sobs push up from somewhere deep in his chest. "Yeah... I miss you too." Jasper realized he wanted nothing more than a hug from his best friend right now. He wiped at his running nose and laughed, but it was the laughter of someone who had completely given up on real humor.

"Do you think it's safe around this part, where we are?" Miller piped up. "I mean, we were all walking back and forth here a lot. It's gotta be clear, right?"

"No, we could have just been lucky," Harper pointed out.

The group sank into silence again. Jasper thought of Lincoln, somewhere to his right. Octavia was out there with Timo, trapped beside whatever was left of Monroe, with no way back to them. It had to be torture for the young Grounder, to be so close – but not close enough to make sure Octavia was okay.

"Screw this," Monty announced. "Jasper, I'm coming over."

"No, shit, that's – " but an eerie whispering sound was approaching. He looked toward the noise and saw Monty, crawling along the desert floor with his outstretched hands running diligently through the sand in search of inconsistencies as he moved.

"You look ridiculous."

"I'm alive, though," Monty pointed out, fanning Jasper's grief all over again.

The boys reached each other at last. Initially their hug was awkward, but the reality of everything they had sacrificed to reach this point crashed over them and Jasper mumbled something about Monroe, and Monty confessed that he missed Maya, and even though there was still so much to mend, for the first time in a long time Jasper felt like they could. Like he could have his best friend back.

* * *

It was early in the morning when Monty finally looked around them and shook his head.

"We don't die here. Deal?"

"Right."

"So… I think we need to work together. These guys can't survive without our combined genius."

"That's true…" Jasper managed a weak smile. "And I think I might have an idea."

Monty waited expectantly.

"When you were crawling across the sand last night – as you got closer, you got louder – "

"Sure, that's the Doppler – oh, _shit_." They fell into their typical shorthand, a conversation taking place in the silences between words that was more subtle and nuanced than an observer could possibly have guessed. "You're right, Jasper."

"Can you do it?"

"Yeah, of _course_ I can do it."

"Tell me what you need."

"I'll have to take apart our radio, so if you can keep Raven from killing me that would be great."

"I heard my name," Raven called out. She sounded like she was aiming for an authoritative tone, but missed, and instead just sounded drained.

"Hey, Jasper and I are going to kill the radio," Monty answered. "I think we can modify it to emit sound waves. Hopefully large enough to get a detectable bounce-back from any landmines."

"… Damn." Raven was silent. Thinking. "Okay. And if it works, I'll kiss you both."

"If it doesn't?"

"You _really_ don't want to know."

* * *

Dawn crept into the wide green valley as if intent on surprising the three human visitors. It was a failed attempt: sleep had proven elusive even for Indra. There was a pinched quality to everyone's interactions as they prepared for departure, the prickly edge of exhaustion bleeding into words and glances. Bellamy insisted they leave before the sun's rays had struck the hilltop; Indra resented the implication that she was not guiding them well. Clarke growled and pushed past them both, angry. Angry at their short tempers, angry at herself for letting their friction affect her. She plunged down the hill without looking behind her, even when she heard the telltale sigh of tall grass pushing against legs. She was content with solitude for the moment, comfortable with the silence they had all so wisely assumed.

She needed to think.

She needed to think about Bellamy.

Echo and Cecily rattled around inside her chest, banging up against her heart in bruising fashion. It was maddening, because there was no logical reason to worry about them and yet they would not leave her alone. Clarke closed her eyes as she walked, futilely chasing after equilibrium.

Luna would tell her not to fight it, would ask her to consider the real reason she was unsettled. And Clarke knew… kind of, maybe… the truth. She had known for a while. It had been one small piece of the motivation to leave: to escape him, and the relentless selfless kindness of him, and his patient love. She had not really deserved that from Bellamy. Not after the monster she had let herself become. But Luna –

"_Damn!_" Indra's cry was a mix of surprise and pain, and Clarke whirled back in time to see her stumble and fall, Bellamy grasping for her as she went down.

"Clarke!" He looked terrified, an altogether uncomfortable vision. "Something - a snake, maybe - shit, where'd it go?"

"Did it bite her?"

"I don't know, I think… yeah, I think so. On the foot."

"Okay. Lay her flat. Get that boot off. I'll be right back." She unsheathed the hunting knife Bellamy had given her in Polis and slipped away in pursuit of the invisible attacker, tracking it West. Finding it took less time than she expected: the orange and brown snake was a monstrous thing, as thick as her arm, over ten feet long. Clarke realized too late – far too late – that she had no idea how to tell if it was venomous. She stared down at the creature, trying to bring herself to kill it.

It sensed her presence, coiled in preparation to strike, and made Clarke's decision for her.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, throwing the knife with an accuracy she could never have managed four months ago. The snake jerked once, a distinctly inorganic reflex, then curled on itself in endless, hideous knots as death caught up with it. Clarke sank to her knees a few feet away, fighting back a primal fear of the creature. She wanted to run away from the thing, but also from its death, a paradox that tormented her.

"…Clarke… don't move, okay? Stay _right_ where you are."

She looked up in surprise at Bellamy, standing less than a foot behind her. Why had he followed her, when she had told him to stay with Indra?

"What are you doing?"

"Saving your life." He gestured around them.

The valley floor was boiling with serpents. Hundreds of them. A wriggling, seething orgy of terror. Clarke gasped and lurched back, slamming against Bellamy's thigh. He gripped her shoulder, tight, and hissed at her in frustration.

"Do. _Not._ Move."

"I have a knife."

"So you'll take out _one_ before you die? No. Get behind me. But… _slowly_." Clarke rose, pressing herself into him for balance, her eyes trained on the nearest snakes.

"Give me your pistol. I could – " Bellamy cut her off with a hard shake of his head.

"I don't need to kill them. I just need to get us out of here alive." He waited until she was clear before backing them both away from the nightmarish scene, and returning to Indra's side.

"We have to get her away from here, it's too dangerous," Bellamy announced as he paced beside Clarke and her patient.

"I'd rather not move her if possible," Clarke answered, but it was habit, a rote medical response based on Indra's rapidly swelling foot and obvious pain. Clarke reached for her bag, tried to hide her shaking hands, failed.

"We will go," Indra assured Bellamy, "I have survived much worse." But he was barely listening. He knelt beside Clarke and she turned away, not wanting him to see yet more tears.

"I'm just so damn tired of death," she confessed.

"...I'm just damn tired," Bellamy quipped. It was gentle. And unexpected. And exactly right. A bark of surprised laughter escaped Clarke; she pressed her forehead into his shoulder, grateful.

"Honestly, the bite isn't deep," Clarke continued a moment later, pulling out a roll of bandages, "and I don't have antivenom in my kit anyway. If we _are_ moving, we need to wrap her foot loosely, right above the bite. We want to restrict the poison's flow but not cut off circulation... It should help keep her reaction to a minimum."

Bellamy took the material from Clarke's still-trembling hand, and followed her instructions. When she insisted Indra should not walk - because doing so would elevate her heart rate and push the poison through her system faster – Indra protested loudly. She was not some infant. She would not be carried like a carcass. She would rather die –

"You _will _die, if you don't listen to me." Clarke stared the proud older woman down. "What would Nyko say? You're in pain and your foot is useless. If I let you walk, you'll be too slow, you'll put us in more danger, and in the end I'd probably end up amputating your leg because of infection."

Clarke tried not to smile at the Grounder's tiny, silent nod - no doubt a difficult concession for Indra.

Perhaps it was his determination to reach Octavia, or the layers of thick Grounder clothing masking her petite frame, or the outsized bravado that made her seem bigger than she was… whatever the reason, Bellamy hefted Indra more easily than Clarke had expected. Instead of continuing North they decided to push East so they could give the snakes a wide berth.

It would have been a good plan. Except for the part where Bellamy planted his right foot on an ordinary-looking patch of grass and the ground beneath him melted away. Clarke watched in confusion as he half-tossed, half-dropped Indra before disappearing from sight. The woman landed heavily but safely beside the space Bellamy had occupied only a moment before, and Clarke ran forward, forgetting to check on Indra because half her soul had just been sucked from her by Hell itself, and she would _not_ let that happen.

"Bellamy!"

"Don't come any closer! It's a sinkhole!" His voice was subterranean, but strong and sure.

"Oh my god you're alive! Are you okay?" she called back, staring out over a chasm that seemed to have swallowed half the meadow. She had no idea where Bellamy was but she could still hear him, and she edged closer, curious.

"Yeah, I'm good Clarke. I'm fine. My weight must've been enough to trigger the collapse. You and Indra need to back the hell away though. There's _nothing_ underneath you. It could go at any moment."

"How far back?"

"Uh… Five hundred meters should be enough."

"Bellamy… the snakes…"

"… Shit."

They were quiet, thinking.

"Okay. We'll deal with things up here," Clarke assured him. "You …find a way back to me."

"Working on it," he grunted.

* * *

Bellamy looked around at his surroundings while he twisted his shirt into a makeshift sling. Given how far he'd fallen, he was lucky to have only minor injuries: a bit of a sprained ankle but nothing severe, whatever had happened to his left arm, and a sore hip he could tell would bruise badly by nightfall.

The sinkhole was a helpful distraction from his battered body. The stream they had found yesterday was buried here, and time had lent its hand to nature's chemistry experiment; the region's soft limestone bedrock never stood a chance. From his new vantage point, Bellamy stared with interest at the complex network of caverns into which he had fallen. It was bright enough by the sinkhole… but light disappeared quickly the farther he moved away from the gaping pit, and the air was musty and stale. There was no visible route to climb out via the cave-in, unfortunately, so Bellamy sighed and adjusted his sling and limped off in search of an exit.

He followed the water, using it to guide him forward. He discovered the darkness was not as absolute as he had first believed; the ceiling was pockmarked with smaller sinkholes, allowing just enough light to keep Bellamy moving.

She had told him to "find a way back". _To her._ He didn't want to read too much into her words, but there was no denying the motivational factor. He _would_ find a way back to her, and after that he would tell her.

Everything.

This fucking planet was determined to kill them, and the thought of being separated from her forever, without ever having told her the truth… It was not an option any more. She might not be ready to hear it, she might hate him for destroying what they had built, but it had all become too unbearable.

So Bellamy followed the sound of the river, let Clarke's smile and blue eyes and protective ferocity serve as his North Star, and picked his way along the rocky cave floor. At some point (time seemed irrelevant when there was no real sun to go by, but the shafts of light were warmer and softer so it was probably late afternoon) he noticed the ground sloping gently upward. The water changed its song, assuming a rushing, tumbling quality. Bellamy looked ahead and saw a fissure in the distance, the source of the stream's subterranean course.

A backlit figure moved toward him, and he smiled in relief. Clarke had beat him to the entrance.

"You are _not _allowed to die, Bellamy Blake!"

"You're not my boss, Clarke."

"We make the rules. This is my rule." She halted a few feet away.

"Where's Indra?"

"Resting at the cave entrance. Don't try to change the subject."

"I wasn't trying – "

" – You _have_ to live. That's the only way I know how to keep going. Do you understand? …I've made that mistake before." She was barely a shadow in the dark; it did not matter. His mind filled in the missing details of her face automatically. He stepped forward, surprised but waiting, knowing there was more. "The first time, I thought I had something to prove. I thought I was being a good leader, letting you go into Mount Weather."

"You _were_, Clarke. It was the right call."

"Only because of you," she pointed out. "I did it for all the wrong reasons. I did it to prove I didn't need you. That you meant noth – " she choked on the word, but recovered, "nothing to me."

A chill ran over Bellamy's skin.

"The second time, I knew that wasn't true. But I was too broken. I would have dragged you down with me if I had stayed. I would have been the worst thing that ever happened to you."

"Unlikely," he whispered. In the dark, his fingers found and cradled her face. His thumb stroked her cheek, hesitant at first – until she clasped his hand in her own and turned, her soft lips whispering over the flesh of his palm as she spoke.

"Trust me. I wasn't able to see anything past my own pain."

"We're all damaged, Clarke," he tried, hurting for her, hurting for himself. "You deserve to be happy. However you can get that, do it. I'll…" He stopped. Leaned into her. Rested his forehead against hers.

"I think I know," she murmured. "But... But what if I'm wrong? What if I'm just… not allowed that? My father, Wells, Finn; death follows me. It rips people from me." She pulled back from him, and with each inch of distance hope collapsed in on itself anew. "I have to protect you from that fate."

Bellamy stepped back too. "I don't believe in fate. We make our own destiny, Clarke."

A short, violent internal battle waged inside him. One part of his heart pushed hard against his chest, hungry for more, starved for even this jumbled confession from her. The other part, the broken, limping part, wanted only its own chance to heal. They had never talked about _any_ of this, and now they were talking about _all_ of it. He wondered how hard he was allowed to push.

But he had made himself a promise: the truth.

"Right now though, I'm asking myself: how long? How long do I give her, before the personal cost is too high?" Bellamy scrubbed at his face. Hated himself for what he had to say, hated himself for contemplating continued silence. "It's not supposed to feel like this. It's not supposed to be all give, with nothing in return."

"It's not – "

"No,_ it is, _Clarke. You say I _have_ to live? Well, where's the part where caring about you doesn't kill me?"

"… I don't know. I'm sorry. I feel like I'll hurt you either way." She was lost, truly lost, and it pulled at him. He couldn't help it, he reached out for her again, his thumb finding her chin this time.

"Okay," he sighed. His jaw ticked gently as he thought about her words. "Then I need to stop. I need to find a way to get past you. Because _I'm willing_ to try, I'm not afraid of being hurt – but _this_ …" She nodded in understanding, the movement telegraphed through his hand, and Bellamy let the sentence end there.

She stepped closer.

She kissed him – a tiny kiss, nothing special to anyone but them.

But to them…

It was every wrong thing that had ever happened between them, condensed into one searing touch that made Bellamy want to run as fast as he could from her.

It was every good, beautiful thing they could be together, starting as small and fragile as a single snowflake and growing exponentially until they were buried under an avalanche of potential.

Eventually Bellamy stopped her. His fingers curled tenderly into the tangle of gold just behind her left ear.

"Clarke..." His voice was a rough sigh, and needier than he expected.

"Okay." So was hers. "If you're willing to get hurt, I am too."

Bellamy leaned forward, until his lips grazed her ear, and felt her shiver.

"To be clear, I'd prefer we avoid that outcome," he murmured. She hummed wordless agreement and reached for him. She dragged her hands through his hair, pulling his mouth back to hers. He met her halfway, falling into the sweetness of her, thrilling to the way her lips parted for him, the feel of her body melting against his chest as his tongue drifted over hers, the wave of heat when she moaned against his mouth and deepened their kiss; for one stolen moment Bellamy let go of fear and pain and regret, overwhelmed by Clarke and by the desire to hide down here with her until the world forgot them both.


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N:** I **know** there was a significant delay with posting this time, and I AM sorry. I hope the length (and content) of this chapter will make up for the delay!_

_**A/N2:** Can we all just agree that MarinaBlack1 and Persepholily are the best, and deserve all the pretty things?_

* * *

Even through the waves of nauseating pain, Indra _knew_ something had changed. The minute she saw Bellamy's face as he emerged from the shadows, she _knew_. There were other clues too, of course: the gentler set to Clarke's shoulders as she bent over her patient; the half-smile sparked every time Bellamy's deep voice rolled over her; the sudden aversion to each other's touch – when before they had sought it out so compulsively. But _true_ certainty came in the fire of the young man's eyes as he followed the blonde's every movement, every gesture. Gone was the distress that had seemed such a permanent fixture of his features. Replacing it, a surprising, youthful… _hope_. Indra shook her head at them, and gritted her teeth in anticipation of speech.

"I hope that little adventure was fun for you both," she panted, "Because now we are losing light." The young couple's expressions changed instantly, guilt flashing over them – lingering slightly longer on Clarke as she watched Bellamy, and Indra knew Octavia must be the cause – and all-too-easily, the pair were dragged back to the reality of leadership.

"How much farther to the desert?" Bellamy asked. "It was hard to tell when I was underground."

"When we were up there," Clarke pointed behind them at the nearest crest of lush green, "It looked like just over a day's hard hiking." Bellamy nodded and turned to Indra expectantly. Ready to lift her once again, to carry her like some weak, useless thing. She felt disgust at the thought of the impending indignity and frowned. This was the worst part of the damn snakebite: accepting assistance. At least he had the common sense to pretend it wasn't happening, and to keep conversation minimal. She was grateful to him for that.

This time, though, he seemed to have forgotten his manners. _Why must young love affect everyone in its proximity?_

"Were you born in Tondc?" he began, such an innocent question, and Indra felt obligated to answer despite the snake venom tingeing the edges of consciousness a bright sour green. The interview continued, question upon increasingly personal question. Somehow as the sun poured the last of its warmth across the fields in glorious yellows and roses that gilt the young man and turned him into a kind of living myth, Indra found herself sharing more than she ever expected. A childhood in the time before the Commander, when the twelve nations were at war and the Mountain Men stalked the woods. A childhood of fear and rampant death and growing up far too fast. Love, young and innocent and happy until he was yanked from her too soon; and the little life growing within her, lost that same winter. Meeting a quiet, reflective boy, his father determined to make a warrior of him. The boy, Lincoln, had become so much more than her second; he had given her reason to live through the darkest of days. Without him to train, Indra might never have recovered enough to take her place as the leader of Tondc.

"Indra, I had no idea," Clarke interjected, quiet to match the hush of dusk. In a moment the valley would explode with the noise of frogs and insects and birds singing for spring – but for now the humans traveled through a calm ghost-world of heavy grass glazed lightly in pale fog.

"We are all just a collection of wounds," Indra pointed out. "It is how we stitch ourselves back together that determines whether we are victims of our past… or _survivors_."

Clarke's brow knitted and her chin twitched. Indra knew she was rolling the words around in her mind, trying them out. This young leader was smart, and learned quickly. But unlike the early days under Lexa's influence, Clarke now operated more cautiously. She still observed and listened to those around her, but gone was the need to conform to the advice of others. These days Clarke weighed new ideas against her own, testing their individual merits. She had grown up so much in such a short time.

"We must stop for the night," Indra finally admitted. She was exhausted from the strain of hiding her discomfort. The couple could _not_ find out; they would insist on a delay for her sake. Unacceptable. "Bellamy, you are injured and yet you didn't tell anyone. Why? This helps none of us."

Bellamy huffed at her as he set her down, but remained otherwise quiet. Clarke was less cavalier. She stared at Bellamy's arm, obviously noting his makeshift bandage for the first time.

"What the hell _happened?_ … Dammit Bellamy, you should have told me! I could have looked at it before we left the caves!"

"We needed to keep moving." He sounded exhausted, too. "And it's not that bad. See for yourself."

As Clarke reviewed the angry-looking gash on his bicep, Indra scanned their stopping point. It was nondescript, nothing remarkable, nothing to remind them of the familiar woods of home. Trees had given up on this area long ago, and the grassy savannah was now their only view for miles.

"I will take first watch," she declared.

"Like hell you will," Bellamy protested, Clarke objecting just as loudly from her place at his shoulder. "You'll never get better that way. I'll cover the first watch. You need sleep."

Indra wanted to fight back, but she barely had the energy. "So do you two," she warned them, and despite herself a hint of teasing snuck in at the end.

* * *

Through the gloaming Clarke watched Bellamy settle Indra for the night, trampling the waist-high grass in a tight circle to create a bed for their guide.

Clarke knew the interrogation had been his way of making sure Indra stayed conscious while they moved; the thought of losing her was offensive to them both. She was their people now, as surely as Lincoln or Maya had come to feel like theirs. Bellamy had taken one look at Indra's swollen foot and ankle and fought back the only way he could. Watching him in those moments, trying to be the hero, battling an invisible, impossible foe… Clarke trembled in anticipation of his return to her, not even fully conscious until precisely that moment of just how much she had missed physical contact with him.

"Bellamy…" Beneath the shrill cricket song her voice hummed, rough and low, and she tried to clear her throat to soothe away such blatant desire. It was pointless. As soon as he was once again within reach, her hands sought out his skin of their own volition, hungry. Curious. Impatient to find out exactly what he felt like now that he belonged to her in some new way, impatient to see if it made a difference to her fingers the same way it did her heart.

Bellamy must have been as mindful of Indra's proximity as Clarke; he was quiet when she tugged at the hem of his shirt and slid her palms over his hips, around his waist, letting them come to rest against his lower back. For a moment Clarke's perspective shifted. As if hanging above them in the ink of night, she watched insistent hips press into hips and listened to breathing grow shallow and quick… But when Bellamy reached for her cheek and his thumb traced the shape of her mouth, touch pulled Clarke back in to herself. She leaned toward the dark shadow of his collarbone, hurting with the need to taste him.

A sudden sharp inhale through clenched teeth when Clarke's lips found the base of his throat, the closest he came to breaking their silence – and with shaky knees, with his good arm circling her hips for balance, the pair tumbled toward the ground. Halfway down mouth caught mouth and Clarke tried not to let herself go _completely_ – but it was hard, it was so hard when he was so present and warm beneath her, when his teeth parted just enough to entice, when his tongue stroked softly against hers and continued, running a teasing line along her lower lip before he captured that lip in a gentle bite and the contrast ripped a low moan from her throat that she _knew_ Indra had heard.

Bellamy, lying on his back in their impromptu garden bed, grinned into her mouth. She suppressed yet another moan at that sensation.

"I think she's already asleep," Bellamy whispered. It wasn't even a whisper. It was thought transformed into breath, and it tickled past Clarke's ear in a way that caused her thighs to tighten over Bellamy's sharp hips. He hissed and his right hand, still clutching the small of her back, pushed roughly at jacket and shirt to find the valley of her spine. Persistent lips wandered back toward hers, calloused fingertips traveled along her backbone, and there was no hope of rescue from this. Clarke succumbed to the chill of night air on exposed flesh, the warmth of hungry mouth over hungry mouth, the pure heat between her legs.

Parts of her wanted him. _Most_ of her wanted him. Right now. Preferably loudly. And fuck the consequences or the neighbors. She had drawn his face too many times, had cried herself to sleep in the imagined comfort of his absent embrace too often, not to feel that desire as a violent thrumming within her body.

… But their people were in danger.

She might as well have spoken aloud, because he tensed beneath her, pulled back from their kiss, and with his injured arm brushed weakly at the curtain of long blonde hair draping from her shoulder to the ground as if to hide them from… all of it.

"It's okay, Clarke," he whispered. He pressed his lips to her forehead. "We have time. We have all the time we need. I promise."

She knew what a useless promise it was, knew death was hunting them as surely as any mountain lion or _pauna_. But the way he said it… when Bellamy talked about Time he made it seem infinite. He made it feel like the kind of Time that could carry them well past death, the kind of Time that bound souls together despite the impermanence of this life.

She nodded. She sat up and tilted her head to one side, watching his face as her hands slid beneath his shirt and worked their way up his torso. They settled over his heart, relishing the strong, fast beat they found.

"I want to be selfish," she confessed quietly.

He blinked in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"… No," she clarified, biting at her cheek. Bellamy frowned, but nodded.

"Yeah. I know what you mean." He squeezed her hips gently and Clarke curled forward again, laying her ear over his chest where her hands had rested only moments before. The tempo changed, the beat slowing, stabilizing, until its cadence echoed the soft endless drumming of the surf outside Luna's village. Peaceful. Safe. Soul-consuming, and Clarke drifted out over a vast dark ocean curled within the sanctuary of Bellamy's steady heart.

* * *

Octavia hugged her knees to her chest under a sky so deep black it was purple at the edges, and missed Bellamy. She knew that was a pathetic response in the moment – knew she was supposed to be stronger by now, supposed to be like Indra – but how? Monroe had basically been blown up right in her face. She had nothing to do but sit in the sand, staring at bits of cloth strewn around her (the remnants of Monroe's backpack) and actively avoiding looking at the other… _bits_.

Octavia understood how death worked. Hell, she laughed weakly to herself, they _all_ got it on such a personal level at this point. But knowing what it meant, or ending someone else's life, or even watching a loved one get floated, those were not like this. Monroe wasn't even Monroe any more, there was pretty much nothing to bury or burn. And that sucked. And Bellamy sucked, for abandoning her on this shitty planet so he could chase after Clarke. That said _everything_, didn't it?

And Lincoln was so far away. Octavia called to him, aching for his presence as she mourned her friend and hated her brother.

"I'm here," he called back. "I'll be there soon. As soon as Monty and Jasper finish their... what is it again?"

"It's a landmine detector," Monty said from somewhere closer to Octavia's memory of Jasper's last location.

Bellamy had chosen _her_, Octavia fumed. He had chosen Clarke despite all the fights and warnings. What kind of loyalty was that? He'd probably say loyalty was what _Clarke_ had done. He'd say she had knowingly sacrificed her own soul when she killed the Mountain, that her loyalty to their people had driven Clarke to do so. He'd say loyalty was the reason he had to go to her now, to bring her home. Octavia sighed and ran her fingers through the cold sand.

"Octavia, just sit tight," Raven said. "I know it's shitty to be out there alone, but it's… Hey Jasper, how much longer?"

"Not much longer, actually," he announced, slightly edgy. "Monty's the bomb."

There was a beat of silence.

"Wow, I didn't… shit, that was _so_ – "

Someone began to laugh. A deep laugh, bigger than expected, a rumble of exhausted mirth, and Octavia looked around for Timo. "Are you okay buddy?"

"Monty's the _bomb_!" Octavia raised her brows at his reaction, but now Wick and Raven were laughing too, and Miller and Harper, and Octavia grinned despite the circumstances.

Jasper making people laugh was just right. Even when it was the worst possible joke he could have made.

"Guys, I really wasn't – " but nobody was listening to the gangly teen. He had provided a release valve for their stress and pain and tired despair. Octavia let a tiny giggle bubble up within her, more at the rest of them than at Jasper's words… and when it escaped she felt better. It grew, becoming inappropriate, but it felt so damn good. The tears felt good too. Somewhere in the midst of her meltdown Octavia realized she didn't actually hate Bellamy. She didn't even really hate Clarke. The truth was more complicated, but Octavia wiped at her warm wet cheeks and knew she'd be happy to see Clarke again. For their people's sake, really. But mostly for her brother.

* * *

Bellamy woke slowly, eager to stay tangled in the dream of Clarke. She felt both soft and strong as she held him close, she sighed infinite sultry promises into his naked shoulder, she coiled sun-kissed tresses into all the dark parts of his soul. What fool would let go of a dream like that?

But something sharp was digging into his lower thigh, a bite from reality to help him shake off sleep. He grunted and shifted, trying to escape the pain, and from somewhere near the hollow of his neck a groggy Clarke hummed in remonstration.

Oh…_ shit._

Dream Clarke disappeared. This Clarke, _his_ Clarke – _was he allowed to think like that?_ – was so much more important. There was a pleasant weight across his chest: her arm, gripping fiercely to Bellamy's far sleeve. Molding herself into a shield over him. As though determined to protect him from whatever they faced next. Bellamy allowed a grin at the feel of her thigh over his, the discovery of her knee digging into his leg (so _she _was the culprit), the warm tickle of her breath. A low dull heat was building deep in his stomach, the familiar rush of arousal singing through his veins. Bellamy swallowed hard. Self control. He could do that. _Restraint._ He was the fucking master of restraint when it came to her.

"Good morning," he whispered. The sun was playing hide-and-seek with them through thick fog. He took advantage of the isolation, rolling them both slightly until they were on their sides, face to perfect, tired face.

She had not opened her eyes yet. That did not stop her from stretching arrogantly toward his lips. She acted as if she deserved the kiss hanging there, as if she already knew it belonged to her, and Bellamy handed it over freely. He captured the arch of her lip and pressed for more, permitting himself this little selfishness.

Clarke's fingers, slipping up against his stomach, were warmer than he expected in the chill of morning. They wandered over his skin, flirting with the landscape of Bellamy's body. He flinched in surprise when she discovered a sensitive spot just above his hipbone, and nipped at her lower lip; his reaction pulled a quiet giggle from her. If he had ever worried laughter might break the spell of this private morning, he knew now hers never could; hers seemed built of its own rough magic.

"I'm ticklish too," she confessed, her words a caress over his chin, "But I'm not going to tell you where." Bellamy shivered at the thought of uncovering her, of finding all her secrets and making them his, too; control momentarily slipped and his vision blurred at the edges. But he recovered, and buried his face in her neck instead. Inhaled the scent of her. Kissed over every patch of bare skin currently available, tasting the salt of yesterday's exertion on her.

She sighed with her whole body. Bellamy unraveled slightly.

"Dammit," he growled. "I need to…" he choked on the words. Looked up at her face once more and found her staring at him in sympathy. He let Clarke finish the thought.

"… Need to stop." She rolled away from him, onto her back, turning her gaze to the low grey sky. "I know." And yet her left hand still drifted along his torso. Bellamy bent and kissed her again, intending to offer only a short consolation prize before they moved on… but she tasted too good. Felt too much like everything he had wanted in life but never let himself believe he deserved.

Kissing Clarke was the best thing Bellamy had ever tried to convince himself not to need. What a fucking idiot he'd been. Of course he needed it. Of course he needed _her_, every atom of her. She was the glue holding together those shattered bits of his psyche. She had run off because she needed to heal, without ever hearing him admit it was she who had healed him.

"I am leaving this godforsaken valley in two minutes," Indra interrupted from somewhere in the fog, "With or without you." Bellamy could hear agony bleeding through each clipped syllable, revealing the emptiness of her threat. He glanced at Clarke, who looked less sure.

"I think she'd cut off her own foot before she stayed here any longer," Clarke warned him.

He nodded and the pair stood, helped each other straighten hemlines and brush leaves from hair, then went in search of their injured guide. Indra's foot was in worse shape than yesterday, a discovery that pleased Clarke and confused everyone else.

"The bruising and swelling is still localized," Clarke explained. "The poison isn't spreading through your system. It means you'll live!" She hugged Indra, surprising all three of them.

Bellamy ran his tongue over his lips and searched the fog for a pale glow signifying the sun's location. He had a theory about that hug. About that intensely relieved reaction to yet one more death averted. "East is there," he pointed, stifling a groan of leftover pain from the beating he'd taken yesterday in the sinkhole. "We should go now, while it's still cool." He paused, waiting for Indra to chastise him for telling her how to do her job, but Clarke's embrace seemed to have warmed one layer of the Grounder's emotional frostiness. She simply grunted assent and exhaled sharply when he lifted her.

Bellamy knew he had overstepped yesterday. He had probed where he shouldn't. Today they traveled in pure silence but for the most basic instructions, his way of apologizing to Indra.

The fog took too long to burn away. It was midday before they could see more than thirty meters ahead of them… but when the haze finally lifted, the trio stopped and blinked in confusion at the new landscape.

The desert was no longer a yellow ribbon in the distance. It had tiptoed up to them, and now very nearly filled their view. The grass of the valley thinned out ahead and then disappeared completely, and a dry wind blew, depositing fine particles of sand into their eyes, their hair, the creases of their skin. A morbid promise.

"Water," Clarke said; Bellamy needed no other prompting. With Indra resting and Clarke looking after her, he set out for the stream – here at its source little more than a weak trickle from some invisible underground spring.

When he returned Clarke was standing with her arms crossed, staring intently at something near the horizon line. "Do you see that?" she asked without turning her head.

"I see… movement." Bellamy shifted in surprise and anticipation. "Sanskavakru?"

"Yeah." Clarke sighed. "I better take that handgun, after all."

* * *

What had started as an occasional epithet from Bellamy had quickly transformed into a string of unending and increasingly violent cursing as the shifting, slippery sand pulled at his boots relentlessly. Eventually he gave up on that outlet though, far too focused on keeping himself – and Indra – moving to waste energy on such pleasantries. He kept his head bowed low, kept putting one foot in front of the other, kept Clarke's feet in his field of view. That was all he had. It wasn't even hot out here, really – it was just so fucking dry. A strange hungry dryness, a kind that seemed to suck at all available moisture. Bellamy tried to remember if this was how it had felt on the Ark – it seemed so long ago.

"Holy shit. Holy _shit!_" Clarke had dropped behind a sand dune and was peeking over the edge at the still-oblivious desert nomads. Bellamy and Indra joined her.

"Clarke?"

"Aiolos! Oh my god, Bellamy, it's him!" She pointed one shaky finger at the only animal in the group, a gaunt skeleton of a thing, yellow-brown with accumulated dirt.

"Are you sure?" Bellamy tried to see what Clarke saw, and failed. "I'm not even sure that's a horse, Clarke."

She clicked her tongue impatiently. "The eyes! Look!"

And it was as though her drawings had come to life. Behind sand-encrusted lashes, a pair of mismatched eyes watched the world with all the wisdom Clarke had poured onto the paper of her sketchbook. Bellamy whistled low in surprise; the creature stumbled slightly and raised its head, its ears flickering toward the sound.

"We have to get him back," Clarke declared.

"No." Indra stared from one young person to the other. "No. It is almost dead already. It is nothing, and not worth the loss of our lives. Octavia needs you. Your people _need_ you," she warned them.

Bellamy saw it in the determined set of Clarke's jaw. He shook his head and looked away from Indra as he answered.

"The thing is, Indra… Aiolos is Clarke's people now, too."

* * *

_**So: Is it okay? I know I made you wait, but hopefully you'll feel it was worth it.**_


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/N: **While Persepholily has very generously given the chapter a once-over and assures me it does not suck, I have NOT had this beta'd by MarinaBlack1 yet. Therefore, it is possible everything is spelled wrong and I have typos every four words, for which I apologize!**  
**_

_**A/N2: **Are y'all still out there? Do you hate me? I sure hate me. I have to admit, the Muses completely bailed on this story for a while there. It was terrifying. I'm not a fan of losing Muse. Fucking sucked, frankly. ANYWAY, my point is I did NOT mean to leave you hanging but I had the end of the school year to get through, then a couple graduations (including my own! YAY!) and I think I was maybe pushing myself too hard in other areas, and the Bellarke suffered as a result. On the upside, I have learned I am also a huge fan of Bates Motel and I ended up starting a little piece for that (still quite small) fandom, which is exciting and I'd love you to check it out if you're interested (it's S3 spoilery, just FYI) - it's called "Worth It".**  
**_

_**A/N3:** I love you all. Thank you for being patient with little old me. And can I also just say... thank you (again) for all your incredible words of support, questions, comments, etc. on every chapter? You are TRULY helping me make this story happen (and making it better!) - so much so that I wish I could share writing credits with each of you!_

* * *

Bellamy and Indra had been arguing for far too long, huddled behind the protection of the sand dune. Clarke huffed at them, frustrated by this hesitation. She knew they were right: with Indra immobilized and Bellamy still heavily favoring his left arm, a straightforward attack was nothing more than guaranteed suicide. It was true, they had to plan carefully if there were to be any hope of success.

Clarke knew all that… But as she watched Bellamy frown, battling with himself over the need to keep them safe and the desire to help Clarke rescue a dying horse, she realized she was asking too much of him. So she handed the gun back, let her hand trail along his shoulder in parting – a poor substitute for the kiss she would not offer in Indra's presence – and clambered over the top of the sand dune.

"Hey! Hello!" She called loudly, waving her arms as she stumbled toward the nomads. "Can someone help me? Do you speak English?" She held her breath, hoping Bellamy would be wise enough to stay out of sight, hoping the scavengers would be unsuspecting enough to let their guard down.

"...We do." It was the young woman who answered, staring at Clarke in surprise. "You are one of the Skaikru, aren't you? What are you doing on this side of the desert? It is far from your camp."

"I got… I got separated from my team while we were looking for… someone," Clarke lied. "I'm all alone, and I just... want to get home. I haven't eaten in a long time." She was hardly being subtle – but then, time was of the essence. She needed them to believe her a non-threat.

Clarke listened as the trio of scavengers debated in Trigedasleng. There was something tense about the interactions between the woman and the younger man; they seemed to be in charge, but clearly at odds. The oldest of the three was too quiet. His participation, too random and nonsensical.

"Join us for a meal," the girl finally said, smiling broadly. Clarke feigned relief and crossed to the group.

"My name's Abby," she offered. "I'm so sorry to bother you. You can't imagine what a relief it is, to find you out here. What are your names?"

"I'm Emori."

Clarke almost gave everything away at that. She almost stumbled, almost looked into those clever cinnamon eyes with recognition. Almost blurted out John Murphy's name.

Instead, she nodded and frowned thoughtfully. Ran a dry tongue over dry lips and took a moment to twist her hair up, off the nape of her sweaty-sticky neck. "Emori. It's a pretty name. And… you are?" She turned to the older man. His nostrils flared but he said nothing.

"That's Mac," the younger man said. "My name is Arbor."

"Arbor, I like that name, it's kind of... pretty, too," Clarke said brightly. Arbor blinked at her once before turning on Emori with a raised eyebrow and a sour frown. She shrugged but otherwise ignored him, listening to Clarke prattle on. "And you have a… what is that, a horse? It _is_ a horse, isn't it? That's amazing. I've seen horses before but never really been so close to one. I always thought they'd be beautiful, but that one just looks old. Is it dangerous? Does it have a name? Where did you find it?"

"You ask a lot of questions," Arbor grumbled.

"Only when I'm nervous," Clarke answered, and then bit her lip. Emori laughed and patted her shoulder.

"There's no reason to be nervous."

Clarke nodded and sank into silence, grateful the subterfuge was working. She waited until her hosts were distracted by meal preparations before risking a glance back toward Bellamy. She caught a telltale flash of dark curl peeking out from behind the sand dune. She could imagine the anger he must be feeling – if he had taken a risk like this without telling her first, she would be livid – but he had to understand. It was worth it, to keep him safe.

"So, the horse," Clarke tried again. "Where did you get him? I didn't think horses were supposed to survive out here."

"Nothing's supposed to survive out here," Arbor pointed out. "If it wasn't for Emori…" He cut himself off and scowled. The young man seemed perpetually angry, and Clarke recalled Murphy's brief but terrifying encounter with Emori's brother. She looked around carefully for anything resembling a missile-launcher.

"Arbor, you talk too much," Emori chided. "Abby, Mac, here. Eat." She held out two small dishes filled with some unidentifiable mash of grains and insects.

"Thank you." As they ate, Clarke permitted herself another glance at Aiolos. She could tell the animal was suffering; his head hung low, his once-sleek coat now dull and thinning in spots. It took effort not to reach for him. Instead she turned to Mac. "How did you end up in the desert?"

He stared at her blankly.

"Mac doesn't speak English. There's something wrong with his brain," Emori supplied, and Clarke heard the pain there. "He may look like a grown man, but inside he's just a child. When we found him he was nearly dead from starvation because he couldn't care for himself."

"I'm so sorry," Clarke murmured, and it was no lie. These nomads were so unlike the ones who had stolen Aiolos out from under her… and it was hard to match their current generosity to Murphy's mixed stories.

"The horse," Emori continued, apparently reading the blonde woman's thoughts. "We stole him." She grinned as if sharing a naughty secret with a close friend. "He was going to be slaughtered for food, and I knew he was more useful to us than those bastards. There are Sanskavakru out here who do not value life, Abby. _Any_ life," and she assumed a bitterness deeper and more personal than anything Arbor could muster.

* * *

Bellamy fumed, immobilized by Clarke's dangerous gamble. Indra seemed as calm as ever, although she had stopped rationing her water because as she pointed out, Clarke was the only able-bodied member of their party… and was about to be killed.

"Not helping," Bellamy growled, tense. He dared another glance Clarke's way, mollified only a fraction by the apparent acceptance of the nomads. "I sure hope you know what you're doing, Princess," he whispered under his breath. The long-discarded nickname - the one he had believed burned on a funeral pyre months ago alongside the body of the boy she'd loved - slipped from worried lips so easily he did not notice.

* * *

Clarke settled beside Emori as darkness wrapped itself around the desert. Mac was already asleep on Arbor's shoulder, snoring gently. Clarke kept waiting for the young man to brush him off or at least complain to Emori… but he did not. Instead he softened, just as the desert itself did once robbed of the sun's unforgiving light. Sand and boy benefitted from the shroud of night. And Clarke's resolve wavered.

Aiolos was helping them. From what she could tell, these three survived on Emori's wits alone; why disadvantage them further, by robbing them of the horse? She kept hoping for some flash of insight but none came.

Eventually even Arbor gave in to the force of sleep, and Clarke shifted slightly in anticipation of the inevitable combat with Emori. She had known it would happen; she had not expected to be so conflicted about it.

"You're here for the horse." Emori's voice was so soft it felt like wind.

"No idea what you mean," Clarke murmured, shaking her head – more for her own benefit, probably, than Emori's.

"Do not try to cheat Sanskavakru, Sky person. Our entire livelihood is based on those same tricks and lies. Did you honestly believe I couldn't tell you were hiding something?"

There was no way to signal Bellamy, let him know she was in trouble. Clarke swallowed hard and waited for Emori's next move.

"Do you… do you know John? He is one of your people."

"… I do."

"I met him once, long ago. He's a good man. He sees people for who they are, and accepts them."

Clarke frowned at that description of Murphy. "He's a survivor," she offered diplomatically. Emori nodded.

"So is the horse." Emori watched her brother as she spoke. "There isn't much time. Arbor will follow you if he thinks it's worth it. But if you're far enough by the time he wakes up, I can convince him not to bother."

"I don't…"

"Take the animal. It's why you're here, right? It's fine. We can get along without him, we did before. But I do have a request," Emori whispered. Clarke considered the possibility that this was all a trap, and tensed. "If you see John again, will you… can you tell him I remember him? And his kindness."

"Of course," Clarke said, blinking back her surprise. In much the same way Arbor had seemed less terrible and more human once night came, Emori was changed by the thought of John Murphy. Even by the light of the moon her eyes seemed brighter. Creases appeared on each cheek, framing her faint smile, magnifying it and erasing several layers of world-weary cynicism… until a crease marred her brow and a shudder of grief passed through her. Clarke reached out and squeezed the girl's shoulder, silently signaling her own personal experience with that particular battle.

She and Emori walked to Aiolos, who nickered at Clarke's familiar scent and touch. She gathered the horse's reins in one hand and turned toward Bellamy's hiding place, eager for their reunion. She paused after only a few steps, and looked back toward her unexpected partner in crime.

"Emori… you should know. He made it to the City of Light. I saw him, and he told me about you. About how you helped him. He… I think he appreciated your time together."

* * *

For the past several hours Bellamy's attention had been fixed almost exclusively on Clarke and her ruse. His muscles ached with the strain of that relentless laser focus. When he saw the nomad girl lunge toward Clarke and Aiolos just as they were parting, his heart tried to punch its way through his ribcage… but the woman was not attacking. She was hugging Clarke. Even Bellamy's skin tingled with the sudden release of tension, and he tossed Indra a self-satisfied grin.

"I told you she would do it," he needled. Immature, but he needed the outlet. She rolled her eyes, feigning indifference, and yet he saw relief etched into her features, too.

"Now if only she can find us a magical source of water," Indra shot back.

Bellamy ignored the comment. He had already turned back to watch Clarke, still keeping up her Lost Traveller charade as she trudged away from the Sanskavakru camp.

She waited until she and Aiolos were safely over the crest of the sand dune before rushing to Bellamy as if to throw herself into his arms. A last-minute reminder of Indra's presence brought her up short, and instead Clarke opted for a quick hug.

Bellamy knew he should honor Clarke's need for circumspection, but he had just spent the better part of a day waiting for her plan to fail, for her to be killed. He grabbed for Clarke's hand as she turned away.

"What are you trying to prove?" The tone was all wrong. Angrier than he intended. She reacted to the tone more than the words, whipping back to face him.

"To _prove_?" Defensive. Staring at him in challenge. As if there _were_ something she needed to prove. As if she had been waiting for this moment. Bellamy could have backed down but he plunged on, ragged breathing propelling him forward.

"You told me you don't have a death wish, but you keep putting yourself in these positions, Clarke! First in Polis, then with the snakes, now here? What's really going on?" He stepped forward, into her personal space and further, refusing to let go of that stubborn hand.

Clarke's face pinched, lips pursing, eyes narrowing at him. "It's not like that at all. I knew you were right, it was too dangerous to attack them directly. Indra's injured, you're injured… I was the only one who had a chance of success."

"A fucking slim chance!" Bellamy's fingers curled into hers.

"Better than none at all!" She squeezed, hard, and he saw her glimmer of angry joy at the pain as it flickered over his face. He shook his head and reached up with his injured arm. Cupped his hand around the back of her neck, letting his thumb come to rest at the angle of her jaw below her ear.

Bellamy tried a softer tone as he leaned even further into Clarke. "And what if you'd failed? Hm?"

"That not important." She could have said anything, except that.

"Of course it's important!" Bellamy felt darkness sucking at him. How could she still miss it? How could she tell him he mattered, and not see the ways she was linked to him? "It's the whole goddamn point, Clarke! We're _out here_ because of you! Indra has risked _everything_ for you! I abandoned my family, our friends, _for you, _because we all need you too much!" He caught her surprised pout into a kiss, soft and fast but full of all the things he was terrible at saying out loud.

"… _I_ need you too much, Clarke."

"You still don't understand. I… I couldn't risk your life." Her eyes flickered over his face, then past his shoulder. To Indra.

Bellamy sighed and pulled Clarke into a hug. _You _are_ my life, you idiot._ "Partners," he said out loud. "It means we tell each other things. Including plans for suicide missions. Okay?"

* * *

Despite all her advice against rescuing him, Indra was great with Aiolos. Clarke smiled to herself. The horse was too weak to carry anyone, but he made an excellent crutch. Indra walked with one arm draped over his back, two injured survivors working together to traverse the cold dark desert.

"Did Emori say how far would be far enough?" Bellamy asked.

Clarke shrugged. "No. but I'd like to put a little more distance between us before we stop."

Bellamy grunted agreement and crossed toward Indra. He approached Aiolos all wrong, staying in the horse's blind spot and walking just close enough to his tail that a kick would have broken ribs. Clarke shook her head with a smile and reminded herself to give him some lessons in the morning; for now, she could rely on her steed's unflappable nature to keep Bellamy out of trouble.

Clarke knew he was right, of course; she had spent so long alone, she needed time to remember what it felt like working with others. Not just anyone else though, either. _Bellamy._

Bellamy, who had been her greatest asset since before they even knew each other. Bellamy, who had pushed back and asked questions and generally pissed her off on a regular basis, until one day she realized she didn't hate the questions, she valued them. She didn't hate the stubbornness, she relied on it.

She didn't resent his offer to share the burden of leadership… she needed it.

"We'll stop here for the night," Bellamy called to her, helping Indra as he spoke. Watching the care he took with the warrior was strangely heartbreaking. Clarke ached for the man who had lost his mother too early, who _needed_ family the way others needed food or water.

"Bellamy," she began once they were all settled for the evening and he was seated to her left, his right hand on her thigh. "You… you were right earlier."

"Is this a trick?" Bellamy squeezed to let her know he was joking, and she allowed a short laugh.

"No trick. I've been thinking about it, and I – I got used to being responsible for just one person, _me_. I need to remember that's not realistic."

"It's not about being realistic, Clarke. That kind of thinking, it's not healthy. Luna must have told you the same thing, right? That none of us can just…" he paused, looked around them for… _some_thing, but came up empty. "Wait. Hang on." He reached into his pack, groping to the very bottom.

Eventually he pulled out a small collection of assorted pencils. Clarke gasped.

"It was supposed to be a surprise… well anyway. This is more important. Here." He handed one to Clarke. "Do me a favor, snap it in half."

She balked. It was a waste of valuable resources. But he growled a bit and she caught a tick in the muscle under his cheek, and decided to humor him. Clarke snapped it in half, then handed him the scraps, silently lamenting the loss.

"It's okay Clarke, we'll salvage the pieces. Now… do it again," and Bellamy pushed the remaining pencils toward her, half a dozen of them tied together with a scrap of twine.

Clarke laughed more openly now. "Okay, okay! I get it."

"Do you really though?" He spoke softly, so tenderly the words slipped between her ribs and coiled themselves around her heart in warm yellows and oranges. "Because you've been acting like the rule applies to everyone _but_ you, and Clarke… That's just not true. I've lived that way. It's fucking hell. It's not even living really. Is it? It's a stupid shell of a life. And none of us want that for you. You deserve so much better than that." She felt the cool night breeze brush against her damp cheeks and realized she had started crying, and leaned heavily into his shoulder.

There was nothing to say to him. It was obvious he understood more than she ever realized.

Well… Maybe there was one request worth voicing.

"Help me?" Clarke's arm slid over his stomach and came to rest at his far hip; she gazed up and found his eyes, endless as the night sky but darker, and hungry. Bellamy bent slightly, returning them both to that earlier rushed kiss but this time teasing it out, exploring Clarke's mouth with patience, pulling emotions from her the same way his teeth caught at her lip, her tongue. This was his answer: a vow larger than words, a promise to coax her out of herself for as long as she allowed him, and she shivered at the terror of such selfless commitment on his part.

She shivered at the prospect of failing him.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: This chapter was written across multiple time zones, states, and even countries. Thus, it's a little bit shorter than usual, but JUST AS AWESOME (Oh, by the way, it's Marina. Posting for Jo. So I get to say what I want about how freaking awesome Jo is and she can't take it down until she gets back from China. MWAHAHAHAHA). So, in other news, Jo rules the world. She is amazing. This chapter is amazing. And you all need to read and review so she has TONS to catch up on when she returns stateside.**

* * *

**You know what to do!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Raven paced, knowing it drove Kyle crazy. In part, she was looking for that fight: a slight roll of the eyes, a snide comment, something—_any_thing—to use as an excuse. Anything to set off the festering irritated boredom and give it a more interesting outlet than… well, than pacing.

"Seriously, Raven!" Octavia finally shouted. "If you don't stop, I'll… I'll…"

"She's not hurting anyone," Monty cut in. "Leave her alone."

"Dude, I can defend myself!" Raven snapped, although she instantly regretted attacking her friend. Especially when Kyle sighed, stood up from his place in the shade of one of the solar arrays and shot her a baleful look before wandering away from the group before Raven could react.

She knew what that look meant. _"Good job, Reyes."_ _"Nice leadership, Reyes." "They're just kids, Reyes." _She wanted to curse at him for being a judgmental ass, but he was right to condemn her.

"Monty, I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine. We're all on edge."

"How much longer will we wait?" Timo's question sent a collective shudder through the rest of the group.

It was Lincoln who answered, reaching for Octavia protectively as he did. "We will wait until Bellamy gets here."

"But he could have gone ahead."

"Not without Octavia," Jasper offered. The younger Blake smiled at him.

"What if he didn't—"

"He'll be here." This time it was Miller, and Raven nearly wept at the loyalty of her friends for their leader.

"Shit, shit, _shit_!" Kyle was a blur of panicked engineer racing toward them from just beyond the nearest sand dune. "I think we're under attack!"

"Are you sure?" Kyle nodded and Raven looked to her soldiers: Timo, Miller, Octavia, Lincoln. They were already moving toward the dune, a bristle of sharp blades and gun barrels and fierce anticipation. Gone was the vague unfocused panic of the landmines; they were trained for combat, and were ready to redeem themselves.

"How many?" Lincoln called back, already signaling Octavia to the top of the dune to serve as lookout.

"Three."

"Were they armed?"

"Who the hell isn't?" Kyle snapped. "I wasn't close enough to see, but they're heading this way, fast. And they have a damn horse!"

A crow of surprised joy from Octavia pulled all eyes to her. "It's not Sanskavakru, it's my fucking brother!"

Raven glanced at Kyle, who frowned and shrugged in semi-apology. Octavia was already gone; her voice from the other side of the dune assured them she'd lived under those feet for sixteen years, she'd know that tired trudge anywhere. Jasper, of all people, scrambled forward, waking the others from a dazed stupor, and moments later Raven found herself alone with Kyle.

"Well, Captain, ready to hand over the reins of authority?" He smiled, and winked, and when Raven burst into relieved tears he gathered her up in sunburned arms. Maybe she should have been more surprised at his calm – almost expectant – reaction to her meltdown, but this was the side of their relationship few others ever saw or understood. He was her safe space. She could be her worst self around him and he would call her on it – then keep on loving her anyway.

"I was so sure they wouldn't make it," Raven confessed. "I thought we'd have to face the water, and A.L.I.E., and all the rest of it without them."

Saying it aloud felt traitorous, but she trusted him with the secret. Kyle, for his part, dragged her face to his and kissed her fiercely. "You love them, don't you?" It was not a jealous question; more a reminder. She nodded. "Then why are we still standing around like idiots? Let's go say hi. Besides," he slipped his hand into hers, "I can't wait to show off the super-leg."

Raven rolled her eyes but a grin escaped—which, she knew, was his real goal anyway.

"They won't care," she promised as they joined the others.

"Geniuses are so often unappreciated during their lifetimes. It's a fact I've come to terms with recently."

Kyle's deadpan humor, the happy grin overtaking Octavia's face, a certain loose comfort between Jasper and Monty… Bellamy and Clarke and their mysterious companion were still too far away to see clearly and yet already their presence was changing everyone. A heaviness Raven had ignored was suddenly gone and she laughed: a real laugh, a young free happy laugh.

* * *

Bellamy was trying not to ask Clarke how much farther—she was doing the best she could, after all—when an impossible sound carried to him from somewhere in the distance. He looked up, scared to believe it could be real.

It was.

"O!"

He ran, forgetting for the moment how much they had both grown and changed, ignoring with determined willfulness the slippery sucking desert under his feet, oblivious to his thirst and his hunger and his exhaustion. Octavia was alive. The fear that had gnawed so relentlessly at his brain seemed a laughable hallucination now; instead, a small bright part of Bellamy Blake blinked itself awake. A bruised, battered, nearly unrecognizable part of him blinked and stretched and filled his chest with suffocating hope. Maybe he would be allowed happiness after all. Maybe he could make it real. Clarke and Octavia and home, all the best parts of him, in a future free of suffering or violence.

He hit the hug hard, but so did she, and both siblings were left momentarily breathless. He laughed when Octavia, foregoing a hello, simply promised him she'd never _really_ thought him dead; and he swallowed back a lump in his throat when she turned her affection on Clarke. The women hugged with a ferocity to rival the Blakes' although he was sure he heard Octavia whisper _"I'm still _so_ pissed at you"_ into Clarke's mane before pulling away to greet Indra.

There was something of a group attack after that, as the others caught up and in the shared joy of finding each other Bellamy forgot to ask why Monroe hadn't come, why Jasper had, and how Timo had ended up part of Raven's group.

Indra, whose interest in the others waned sharply after Lincoln and Octavia, suddenly gripped Bellamy's shoulder.

"It is not possible," she gasped, staring past the others. Bellamy followed her gaze, confused to discover the object of her attention was Timo. "You… are a _Ripa_!"

Bellamy wrapped one arm around her waist to hold her up. He caught Clarke's eye. She was watching the Grounders closely, ready for anything. Indra had never tried to hide her hatred of the Reapers.

"No, Indra," Timo whispered. His dark face glistened, wet from fat, quiet tears. "Not a _Ripa_ anymore. Doctor Abby healed me. She saved so many of us. I'm your Timo again Indra. I swear it." He dropped onto his knees at the shocked woman's feet, wrapping arms the size of tree trunks around her thighs and breaking down at last; Timo wept years worth of tears into Indra's leg until Bellamy had to look away from such an intimate moment.

* * *

Clarke had known she would be seeing the others again, and had believed she was prepared. She wasn't. Jasper and Monty were back to being friends, Bellamy's warning about them proven inaccurate by their codependent proximity. Harper and Miller circled the pair regardless, hovering at the edges in anticipation of any potential conflict, protective of Monty in a collective way that Clarke envied.

Timo and Indra had distanced themselves from the group. Time had done the couple a great disservice and they seemed determined to make up for years of separation. Aiolos followed Indra as though he knew she needed him more than Clarke did at the moment… Clarke found herself loving the animal even more for it.

Then there was Raven, a teary mess of joy and relief at reuniting with her best friend; and Wick, whose easy smile disappeared only when he broke the news of Monroe's death.

Clarke watched them all – and Lincoln and Octavia as they flitted busily between both worlds – and felt adrift.

"You okay?"

She looked over her shoulder and caught Bellamy watching her. She shrugged. _Okay? Probably._ Or she would be eventually. These were the people for whom she had given up her very humanity. She loved them. She loved each one of them enough to die for them. So… why did she resent them so much?

"I'm sorry about Monroe," she said. Bellamy nodded. His lips tightened and thinned and he was silent for a moment.

"It could have been worse."

Clarke weighed that sentence. Did he mean they were lucky to have lost only one? Did he mean at least Octavia had made it back to him?

…Did it matter what he meant? They both looked out at the surviving members of this party and considered it, overall, acceptable. Which sounded an awful lot like Lexa's mindset, and Clarke shuddered. Monroe was a person, Bellamy's friend, and a life as valuable as any other.

"She deserved better."

Bellamy nodded, a cloud of grief behind his eyes. "Didn't they all, Clarke?" It was soft and true and Clarke remembered suddenly – body achingly – just how much Bellamy meant to her. He was more than strong, more than tough and charismatic. He was all the better parts of her soul. She moved closer to him and the tireless sense of duty he exuded. He continued. "Some day, I promise we'll have time to honor her the right way. But for now all we can do is make sure this plan of yours works. Monroe would like that. She always felt guilty for leaving you at Mount Weather, you know."

"She didn't have a choice," Clarke whispered, brow furrowed in surprise at the revelation. How could anyone feel _they_ had abandoned _her_?

"If you two are done conspiring, we need to talk logistics," Raven announced, all business once again. Nobody could bounce back from an emotional meltdown quite like Raven. "Monty and Kyle snagged a couple of the drones and have reconfigured them to work for us, but now we have this issue of the boat to deal with."

"Drones? What drones?" Bellamy asked.

Clarke smiled, distracted for the moment. "Who figured it out?" She'd bet it was –

"Monty, of course," Miller announced. "I'm pretty sure he's the only one who could."

Something clicked for Bellamy, and he nodded imperceptibly. "You're talking about the last clue. The one about the Queen and her workers?"

"Yes. Murphy will fill in the details but I can give you broad strokes. A.L.I.E. stands for Automated Launch Interval Exercise." Clarke paced as she spoke. "It was an AI program designed to improve the former USA's nuclear defense program by speeding up response times in the event of attack. Something happened though, and it went haywire. That's how the war started."

"Shit," Harper said.

"It has possession of a nuclear warhead now, and plans to bomb the largest existing enemy city."

"But there are no enemies to bomb. Are there?" Wick looked around him in confusion.

"Well… There's us," Jasper said.

"Holy fuck."

"Exactly." Clarke turned back to Raven. "And we'll be fine taking the boat."

"But we checked it out. First of all, I'm sure nobody can sneeze or the damn thing will fall apart. It also only holds ten people, and there's no way in _hell_ a horse will fit."

"We will not be joining you," Indra declared.

Octavia tilted her head. "Wait – why not?"

"Indra has other responsibilities. This isn't her battle," Clarke offered. She and the older woman shared a quiet, understanding glance.

Bellamy clarified. "The Grounders are dealing with political instability right now. Indra may be our best shot at stopping a full-scale civil war."

"Lexa," Lincoln growled.

"Exactly."

"We'll go with you, Indra," Octavia volunteered. "We're dead weight against a computer that wants to destroy the world; Trigeda armies we can handle." Clarke watched Bellamy tense.

"O, I just got you back! Are you _serious_?" He grabbed his sister's arm, but she just laughed.

"Bell, I want to help, and we both know I'm a lot more useful to Indra and Lincoln than Monty and Wick."

"But if it goes bad…"

"I'm a survivor, big brother. Besides, that won't really matter if you can't stop this nuclear warhead."

Clarke watched the siblings, part of her hesitant to intervene, nervous about offending Octavia and deepening the rift she had already caused between them.

But she couldn't resist. "Octavia's right." She watched Bellamy's scowl deepen and Octavia's eyebrows lift, and plunged on anyway. "Skaikru need as many allies as possible speaking on their behalf. Can you think of better ambassadors than your sister and Lincoln?"

"Ambassadors... I like it. See, Bellamy? Even Clarke agrees with me." The 'even' part stung, but Clarke stayed quiet. Octavia had earned the right to say whatever the hell she wanted.

Bellamy stared between the two of them, frustrated by the sudden team effort to thwart him.

"If anything happens to you…" he trailed off.

"Yeah, I know. I love you too, Bell."


	14. Chapter 14

_**A/N:** It's been HOW many months since I updated?! ... Shit. I have nothing acceptable to say as excuse._

_**A/N2:** Have we talked about the world's best internet wife? MarinaBlack1 is amazing. She recently published her first original novel, and her second - Unintentionally Yours - is due out in a couple weeks! It is a fantastic story. Please search her out on Amazon. You will not be disappointed. BUT... she is also currently working on her THIRD (YES! THIRD!) original piece so I have not asked her to beta this because COME ON: girl has enough on her plate. Persepholily gave it a quick read-through though, so hopefully between the two of us any really terrible glaring errors have been dealt with already. If not, I take full responsibility._

_**A/N3:** I DO feel really terrible. I feel like I pulled a total Clarke on this one; I just got to the point where I needed space to be able to process things, before being able to come back to Bellarke in a more healthy way. BUT I **AM** SORRY!_

* * *

Like some grotesque mechanical parody of a sunflower field, A.L.I.E.'s aging solar array had dutifully followed the sun's passage across the sky – but now that great orb had disappeared from view and the panels were left to stare forlornly at a western horizon smudged with fading wisps of lavender, gold, rose.

Indra, Timo, and Lincoln waited in silent semi-patience beneath the two-tone dome of twilight as Octavia – and Aiolos, such an oddly human horse – said goodbye to the ones who would be staying behind. Clarke and Bellamy gave each other space, too. _She_ knew both Blakes struggled with this latest separation, despite Octavia's protests to the contrary; _he_ knew Aiolos mattered more than Clarke wanted to explain.

After that departure, the remaining members of the group fell into a collective restlessness. Clarke demanded they wait for morning to leave, hoping to avoid the sea monster's attention by traveling over water during daylight hours.

…Now Raven and Wick huddled together under the solar panels where they could attend to her brace, using it as a pretense for flirting that would, inevitably, lead to love-making. Monty and Jasper collected Harper and they gravitated toward the old boat, spreading out a beggar's collection of drones and radios and the scraps of metal Raven kept shedding as she and Wick found new ways to increase the efficiency of her brace. Miller hovered anxiously at Bellamy's elbow. It was clear he felt torn in allegiance, staring after the trio by the boat even as he debriefed Bellamy on all that had happened in his absence.

Clarke watched the men and felt jealous. She noted Miller's hands, as jumpy as his gaze, and felt jealous of that physical longing for the others. In fact, Clarke realized as she let her attention drift out over the rest of the scene, jealousy was eating her alive. She searched for other emotions, but could not find them for the green haze infecting her thoughts.

"Excuse me," she managed as she turned and fled all of it. The dunes swallowed her quickly; the darkness of night assisted. She stumbled and slid and sobbed her way down one long steep slope after another.

They didn't need her. Not really. It was what she had wanted, wasn't it? A release from the horrors of leadership? So why this reaction?

She had left them under Bellamy's care because her moral compass had broken, but not his.

He could keep them safe and still stay true to who he was, something she had failed to do. So she had walked out on them. On him. Because even though he might resent her for it, she knew she had no right to demand his respect, his… trust… until she was his equal. And the minute he had tried to own half her guilt, deep in the bowels of that mountain, he had proven to her just how very unequal they were.

"Clarke?... Shit!" Sand cascaded down the slope behind her, a dry monsoon heralding Bellamy's arrival. She was kneeling, sobbing quietly into her sleeve; he could not have heard her. But he had come to her _somehow_, the relentless asshole.

"…I should never have left." Her own sudden confession shocked her. Bellamy's sharp exhale – close, just behind her shoulder – and lean fingers found the tight triangle of her trapezius, squeezing gently.

He kneeled beside her, his touch disappearing as he balanced himself. "I'm supposed to say you did what you had to do, again." Bellamy's words came out low and gruff. They scratched like sand over Clarke's raw heart. "Well, I can't. Not any more." He moved around to face her. "It was the worst thing you ever did to me."

Clarke bit her lips together, fresh tears welling up, and waited for more.

"Sounds selfish I guess. Maybe it is… but Clarke, I missed you. Every day. Even now, I wake up sometimes and there's a second where I forget what's happened and where we are… and I miss you."

She blinked at the tears as they spilled, and nodded, and waited for more.

"Jasper was so bitter, and you weren't there for him. Harper was… traumatized. She could have used your support, but you weren't there. Monty pretended he was okay but he was way too quiet, and we tried to get him to talk but Nathan and I, we're no good at that shit. We looked around for you, and you weren't there." He expression said he hated himself a bit for doing this to her, but also that he had never needed something quite like he needed to share these stories.

"Octavia blasted you for everything, pretending she knew your deal, but underneath all that anger she was just scared and confused, and Clarke… you weren't there."

She turned, and fell into the black pain of his eyes. She recognized that strain. He had been her strength – had been everyone's strength – far too long. He was an ocean of loss and hurt and Clarke threw her soul into the stormy waves of his grief, unable to let him suffer this way alone a minute longer.

"I never wanted to leave you," she whispered hoarsely. "If I could have, I would have taken you with me. But Bellamy, no matter how much I needed you… they needed you more."

"Yeah? And how about me? I needed _you_, Clarke!"

"I'm sorry!" she choked out. "I am so sorry," she continued as she grabbed blindly for him, fingers connecting with his cotton shirt, the bare skin at the back of his collar, the dark mess of tousled hair behind his ears. She lunged hungrily for his lips, gasping against his mouth at the force of their kiss: he both punished and pleaded, angry and sad and desperate to help her see what she had done to him.

"You were the only one I could trust," she mumbled into his cheek eventually. "To be there for them. And to… to still be there for _me_, when I came back. The only one I could trust, Bellamy… It's always only been you."

He pulled back for a moment, the downward curve of his mouth hovering at that space between sorry and sad.

"I know," he finally whispered, pressing loving lips to soft skin. To chin. Throat. Ear. To the hint of exposed flesh along the ridge of her shoulder.

For no reason she could explain, Clarke sighed at the sudden release of a heavy weight. Those two words erased her jealousy of earlier, and she allowed herself to give in to the pleasure of Bellamy's caress, determined to reciprocate that generosity. Her fingers drifted up his scalp, tangling once more into his hair, dragging his face toward hers. Her mouth parted in anticipation as their bodies pressed together; she slipped her tongue past his teeth, moaning at the warm tingle of his torso, hard and lean, tightening against hers.

Eventually they pulled apart: out of breath, wild with their hunger for more but weighed down, as ever, by the shadow of six people waiting for them and by the looming threat they still faced.

"…_Fuck_," Bellamy growled. Clarke nodded in silent agreement.

* * *

It was eerie trying to sleep on this beach, so different from Luna's and yet similar enough to leave Clarke feeling unsettled. The water was brackish here, a touch of salt to carry on the breeze, like a memory of lost serenity. The waves, too, had little of the force of their sisters on the true coast – but the sound existed nonetheless, the slap of water on sand, hypnotic and rousing in equal measure.

The lack of Luna's presence, and knowledge of what lurked in the murky depths of the channel before them now, tugged at Clarke as she tossed and turned. Eventually she admitted the impossibility of sleep. She sat up, draping her arms over her knees, her eyes on the small boat and the water beyond it. The monochromatic landscape glittered under the low cool light of the stars.

"Thinking about tomorrow?" Bellamy murmured from his place in the sand beside her. Clarke looked back at him, saw him lying face-up with his arms crossed behind his head. He was not watching the water; he was staring into the fathomless inky darkness overhead, their former home.

"Sort of. Or maybe… comparing notes on the past and the future."

"You can see the future? That's a damn useful skill, Clarke. Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

She grinned, grateful he could find and offer her a bit of humor, and smacked him in the knee. "Shut up. No, I meant… This place reminds me of Luna's village. It's not the same, not even close… but there's something about it."

"Except you went there to heal, and you've come here to… fight." Bellamy sat up too, his shoulder brushing against Clarke's in that comfortable "I'm here" way that always calmed her.

Someone whistled gently in the darkness. Bellamy whistled back, echoing the simple melody.

"It's Harper," he explained to Clarke. "She's amazing. She's been teaching the guards in her free time, so they can communicate while out on patrol. Miller refused to learn at first – said he had Monty's radios for that kind of stuff – but I think Monty convinced him to humor her. They've gotten pretty good."

"Good to know I'm not the only insomniac," Harper chirped as she arrived, sinking into place on Clarke's other side. "Is this general sleeplessness, or are you two conspiring again?"

Clarke cocked her head at Bellamy, her brow furrowed. "Do we conspire often? Raven accused us of the same thing earlier."

Bellamy grinned and leaned into her slightly, although when he spoke it was to answer Harper. "General sleeplessness, but we might as well use the time."

"Right," Clarke agreed, shifting gears smoothly. "We're lucky to have those two drones. Harper, do you know what they're capable of at this point?"

"They scramble our location signals to A.L.I.E.'s other drones, and block audio. Monty has mostly been using them to scout out the terrain around here, though. Wick was also trying to equip them to fight."

"Fight what? Each _other_?" Bellamy sounded annoyed.

Harper giggled. "No. To attack the other drones. We thought maybe we could take out enough that we'd blind A.L.I.E. but – "

" – Don't. It's pointless to try that. There are too many, you wouldn't even make a dent. All you'd do is telegraph our hostility to her. In fact, we need to stop scrambling our location right away. A.L.I.E. is expecting us. She'll go easier on Jaha and Murphy if she knows we're on our way."

"What do you mean she'll 'go easier' on them?" Bellamy asked. Despite Clarke's steady narrative as they crossed the desert, he still felt like there were so many details missing.

"She withholds food if she feels they're stalling. Of course, they're always stalling, it's just a matter of whether or not she can tell. Anyway, they've been dealing with that for a while now."

"Shit," Harper breathed. "I didn't realize. And they can't leave?"

"No. I was granted permission to walk away from A.L.I.E.'s compound only because Jaha convinced her I would bring back engineers and mechanics to work on the missile. And that I would do all of this _very_ quickly."

"And what happens if we weren't fast enough?" This time it was Monty, crawling up to sit facing Harper, knees touching. There was a mutual comfort to the physical connection – a call-and-response Clarke recognized all too well. She and Bellamy had occupied that kind of space far longer than she had initially admitted, certainly longer than Lexa, or Finn, or even Abby had understood. That small touch between their friends, the one so reminiscent of Bellamy's shoulder still pressed against hers, clawed at Clarke's heart and she shuddered as faces of the fallen swam into focus; Monty's question prodded two new shadowy figures to join the others, ambushing her.

"Clarke?"

"I'm fine. Just give me a minute," she assured Harper, turning to Bellamy, desperate. He seemed to understand instinctively, finding her hand and twining his fingers into hers the way he had when they fled Polis with Echo.

"Let's talk about something else," he began, and even though he was speaking to all of them, it was Clarke who nodded. "Okay… I'll tell you about Octavia, since she's not here to stop me. When she… when she was a little girl she was _stubborn_." He paused and shook his head, and allowed a quiet chuckle. "Not much has changed, really. But even as a child she wanted to fight. She hated hiding. She knew she had to, she just… really hated it." Bellamy was grinning now at the memory of tiny Octavia and her long dark ponytail. "We turned it into a game, to make it less miserable. She would make up a story, and when she got out, she'd tell me the beginning and I had to guess how it ended."

"What kind of stories?" Monty asked, curious despite himself. Clarke squeezed Bellamy's hand in silent thanks, and listened.

"Didn't matter what kind. It could be about lions or kings or astronauts, it always ended with the brave Princess Octavia slaughtering everyone and taking over the jungle or kingdom or spaceship. Every damn time."

Monty and Harper tried – and failed – to stifle their laughter.

"But whatever happened to the girl with the butterflies?" Clarke whispered, genuinely baffled.

"I don't think Octavia sees appreciation of beauty, and fighting for what's right, as being mutually exclusive."

There was silence for several minutes as the others thought about Octavia and her current mission.

"Monty, the drones are blocking audio right now?" Clarke asked suddenly.

"Of course."

"First thing in the morning, you and Wick need to fix that. But for tonight let's use it to our advantage. I'm thinking about what happens after we stop A.L.I.E. – and that's not the kind of information her drones need to hear."

"_After_ we stop her? You're awfully confident," Monty pointed out.

Clarke smiled through the darkness. "With you on my side, Monty? Yes, I am."

* * *

"_This_ is the cavalry?" Murphy stared at Clarke in disbelief as she climbed out of the dinghy on the shores of the lighthouse. "We sent you for help and you thought the Odd Squad was our best chance of success?"

Clarke ignored the words in favor of the deeply – _very_ deeply, in Murphy's case – hidden sentiment. He was even gaunter than when she had left, his eyes sunken behind that hawk-like nose, but she breathed easier knowing he still had the energy for such defensive sarcasm. She hugged Murphy quickly before stepping aside to let the others greet their… _well. _Maybe not exactly a friend… _Colleague,_ perhaps.

"I'm still a damn sight more useful than you, Murphy," Raven growled in challenge, but her grin and her hug were warm. The others followed her lead, and as he accepted each sign of affection something within John Murphy softened a bit.

Until he spotted Bellamy.

Both men froze, each engaging in a moment of internal struggle; as Bellamy tensed and Murphy… _regressed_… Clarke was reminded of the strange love-hate relationship the two had always shared. It seemed like years, now, since that frantic mob strung John from a tree while the not-yet-sure Bellamy hesitated, trying to decide what kind of leader he would be.

"My Lord," Murphy finally hissed with a mocking bow.

"Always such a prick," Bellamy grumbled as he pushed past the other man's bent form, knocking hard thigh against bony shoulder along the way.

"You would know," Murphy called to the man's back. He noticed Clarke's suspicious stare and straightened, shrugging and forcing a caustic smile. "Don't worry about it. He'll get over me eventually. Welcome to Casa Crazy everyone! Population two – no," Murphy cut himself off, silently counting out the group in front of him – "Sorry, let's make that _ten _humans and one psychotic computer program. A.L.I.E.'s been expecting you."

Murphy's tour of the compound was quick and pointed. There was Charon's Boat (Jaha had named it one night in a fit of despair), useless as an escape route since A.L.I.E. had a small army of weaponized drones ready to sink it at any time. The lighthouse, creepy timeless homage to her creator. And, as they crested the hill: the mansion. Clarke watched the faces of her friends for their reactions. Awe hit first, followed by fear. Desire, too, danced behind several pairs of eyes, and Clarke remembered that initial surprised covetousness.

It would fade.


	15. Chapter 15

_**A/N:** See? I'm back! I'm really and truly back! And here's another chapter, to prove it! YAY!_

_**A/N2:** Massive hugs and love to my girls, MarinaBlack1, Persepholily, and Lucawindmover. They inspire me every single day. I love them. You should too._

_**A/N3:** This is officially the "M" chapter, gang. Forewarned is forearmed._

* * *

A.L.I.E. had chosen a blue and green outfit to greet her new guests, which – as she explained while Wick, Raven, and Monty swarmed around, asking questions – were colors generally associated with calm and serenity. Welcoming colors. Colors to soothe.

"Where's Jaha?" Clarke had no patience for this act. Hands sat on angry hips, a stance Bellamy knew all too well. It should not turn him on. It did.

"John?" Thelonius Jaha's voice, robbed of its usual deep resonance by A.L.I.E.'s draconian coercion tactics, echoed from a distant room. Bellamy watched, eyes narrowed, as Murphy flinched toward the sound. He seemed eager to leave the others and seek out the former Chancellor. Bellamy considered what it must have been like for these two men, tethered together out of necessity and circumstance. He tapped Murphy on the shoulder and nodded toward the hallway, silently giving permission to leave.

"I was going anyway," Murphy snapped, but he nodded back as he said it, and blinked lazy blue eyes, his private way of thanking the dark-haired leader.

Bellamy turned his attention back to the hologram attracting so much attention. The tech-heads were still asking questions; Miller and Harper were quiet, occasionally succumbing to temptation and waving a hand through the apparition's arm or waist. Each time one of them did so, A.L.I.E. paused her conversation with the others and tilted her head at the offending human.

"Enough of the interrogation," Bellamy finally cut in. He had understood less than half the words flying around the room, and was growing increasingly frustrated at the prospect of being, to put it bluntly, useless in this battle. "We've been through hell to get here, and nobody's touching a damn thing until we've all had a chance to rest, and gotten some real food."

"Of course, Bellamy Blake." A.L.I.E. smiled at him, then at Clarke. "So very pragmatic." She turned for the hallway down which Murphy had just fled.

"I trust you will find your accommodations satisfactory, and I have done my best to ensure you will be treated well while you are my guests, but there are some basic ground rules. First, please don't try to leave. Second, please don't try to access any rooms that are locked. You will fail, and I will be so disappointed." She smiled as she said it. Bellamy turned away from the smile. It looked so real. Well: it looked so fake, but so _very_ fake he wanted to punch something.

"Ah. Here we are!" A.L.I.E. turned back to face them, hands clasped in front of her as if she actually hoped to please. "Clarke, I've had your old room prepared."

"No."

He did not realize he had said it aloud at first. But everyone was staring at him, and A.L.I.E. had frozen with a disconcerting lifelessness in her eyes. She blinked back almost instantly, and tilted her head.

"Your vital signs indicate an extreme stress response, Bellamy. Are you upset?"

His jaw ticked; he risked a glance at Nathan. It was nothing the others didn't already know anyway.

"Hell yes I'm upset. I'm not leaving her alone in this place."

"Bellamy, I'll be fine." Clarke refused to look at him, instead keeping her gaze fixed on A.L.I.E.

"Look, it's nonnegotiable. You want our help? Then work with me on this." Bellamy pushed down desperation, and watched A.L.I.E.'s face do that odd lifeless thing again. "Fine! Read my pulse or my body temperature or whatever the hell else you want! I'm telling you, I… will… _not_… lose her… again!"

A.L.I.E. inclined her head gently, a concession. "I can see this matters to you. I'll honor your request."

"Thank you."

"Um, sorry, but that's us too," Wick jumped in, raising one hand in a half wave and then pointing at Raven. "I'm staying with her. You know, because of the brace. And the sex."

"Well dammit, I'm not living alone either," Nathan piped up, and he looked at the others for confirmation. Monty and Harper murmured agreement and then turned toward Jasper.

"You're with us," Monty declared.

"I… okay. Yeah."

Eight pairs of human eyes turned back to the hologram, curious to see how she would react to this minor rebellion. She smiled, that charming A.L.I.E. smile, and spread her arms wide in a gesture of generosity.

"I did not know this was a problem. My apologies. But since I monitor every room in the mansion continuously, it's also irrelevant to me where you choose to sleep. Now please, make yourselves at home."

* * *

The door swung closed on silent hinges as soon as they stepped through, unceremoniously separating Bellamy and Clarke from the others.

He'd expected this room to be as impersonal as the public areas of the mansion through which they'd already passed but instead it was like someone had found images of old Earth dwellings, the kind from their Ark textbooks, and replicated one here in exquisite detail. Clarke, already familiar with A.L.I.E.'s design taste, sank into a thickly-upholstered armchair while Bellamy investigated.

He tried to maintain an air of vigilance, but found it wavering. This just did not feel enough like a prison. Some of the urgency required to sustain a perpetual fight-or-flight response was leached from him by the vase of flowers on the small bedside table, the gauzy curtains at the window, the view of an immaculate lawn just outside. Even more unsettling for its mesmerizing promise of comfort was the bed itself: a huge thing, covered in pillows and thick blankets.

He must have been staring, because Clarke shifted forward in her seat. "Try it," she suggested. "It's very comfortable."

Something in him balked at the idea. "I'm fine."

Clarke sighed and stood. "You're not. You haven't really slept in… how long now?"

She sounded so goddamn… _weary_.

Bellamy crossed back to her, genuinely worried. She had been through too much already: war with the Grounders. Finn. Mount Weather. Polis, and their flight from that place, and the desert and now this new threat… and suddenly he could see it, see the shadow she seemed unable to escape no matter how far she ran or how hard she worked. Always, death followed her. _No_, he corrected himself, disgusted. It did not _follow_ her. It hung over her, it clung to her skin with all the cloying, suffocating, possessive determination of a resentful lover.

"You've done good," he offered, watching her carefully. "But you're not done yet." She had sense enough not to feign ignorance of his meaning. "Just because you walked out on them doesn't mean they walked out on you, Clarke. You're still their leader. They still need you. I'll… always need you."

Her nostrils flared at his speech. She stood in anticipation of where he might take this next, her weight shifting in subconscious preparation to run. He almost relented; but then he remembered her request, her plea for him to help her.

"Clarke, I – "

"Shut up." She cut him off, a finger flying to his lips to silence him as she shook her head.

He refused to give in to her.

Slowly, eyes holding hers with a relentless softness, Bellamy reached up and wrapped his hand around her raised finger. He lifted it, freeing his mouth again, noting the frantic racing pulse at her wrist.

"You have to know."

"I can't – "

"I'm in love with you."

"...Please don't."

He could not stop a frown. "You don't get to tell me how to _feel_, Clarke."

"I know that. But there's so much that's uncertain. It's… too soon."

Bellamy nodded his understanding: _Too soon to care so much. Too soon to let __her__ curse seal __his__ fate._ Bellamy gripped her waist, letting his forehead bump against hers lightly. "Fine. But it's already been this way so much longer than you've been willing to notice, _Princess_." She startled slightly at the old nickname, a tremor against his body. "And hey... I'm still here."

Done with words, Bellamy kissed her. Such a small thing, really: two people closing the space between them, allowing the accident of lips touching lips. So small. So easy. So… terrifying, how one kiss could transform two lives.

Overwhelmed by Clarke, in awe of her, desperate for her, Bellamy's mind reeled and he pressed closer.

She matched him. She threw every dark, deeply-buried emotion at his feet – the fear of being un-loved and unwanted, the worry that she had not yet worked her way back to him – as if daring him to take it on, to fix her, at the very least to find some kernel of beauty in the wasted, damaged landscape of her soot-blackened soul.

He almost laughed at the challenge, dragging her arms over his shoulders and stumbling back until his hip crashed into a nearby wall. She thought he could find nothing to love? As he clawed her free of her clothes, fought his way out of his own, Bellamy's hungry lips poured love over her skin.

He loved her neck, strong enough to hold her head high even when the world wished to drown her in blood. He loved her shoulders – slender, bowed under the weight of their people, but resilient despite that pressure. He turned them both, and pressed her against the smooth cool wall, and loved her collarbone and breast for housing a heart so wounded by loss after loss that surely it must collapse in on itself at any moment… but found a way to keep going instead.

When she gasped and grabbed at his hair in pleasure he sank lower, walking loving lips over her stomach and hips, the center of her power, and down her thighs: those beautiful legs had carried her into danger after danger and always – always – brought her back to him. His fingers dug into the backs of her knees as he struggled to stay sane, overwhelmed by the reality of her, of his need for her and his inability to ever repay her for all she had given him.

"Bellamy…" His name was round and warm in her mouth, a moan of anticipation and a plea for release, and something dangerous and hungry inside Bellamy shifted. He straightened – entered her – filled her – held her in place against that pristine prison wall for what should have been years but was only moments.

"You okay?" he finally managed, his face buried in the curve of her neck. He could feel her tears again, such a part of their life these days. The noble part of him wanted to make all that end for her, but as he gave in to the warm pleasure of Clarke wrapped tightly around him, Bellamy struggled against his much more selfish, primal need to hear her say his name again – to scream it, in fact, in that low throaty way of hers that ate at his brain.

* * *

Clarke turned her face and kissed him, a voiceless answer because he had stolen her voice. She kissed him hard and hungry, parting her mouth to him, each cell of her body aching with a desperate need for the fullness of Bellamy, each cell singing in rapture as he invaded and conquered the emptiness within her.

She wanted this for herself, but also for him. She wanted to help him see how much he mattered, how much all the good parts of her still remaining were really half-composed of him anyway. Clarke wanted to help Bellamy see his power and beauty the way she did, but more than anything, she thought as their naked limbs tangled into knots and his hips ground against hers with agonizing satisfaction, she wanted him to know how much she loved him. How much _more_ she loved him than she could ever tell him.

* * *

With little more sound than the slide of wooden door over marble floor, Clarke slipped out of the room.

"Bellamy's sleeping."

A.L.I.E's sudden intrusion startled Clarke.

"Dammit!" She whipped around, arms already crossed over her chest and face drawn into a deep scowl. The hologram was dressed in powerful red; _no longer welcoming new guests, then_. "Yes, he's sleeping. Now if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be."

A.L.I.E. nodded, once, with a small knowing smile. "You had sex. You're understandably hungry."

_"__Oh my god!"_

"You don't have to be embarrassed, Clarke, we're all women here."

"No, we're not! _You're_ a piece of malfunctioning software. And I'm _not_ embarrassed, but I _am_ done talking about this." One eyebrow arched, a warning; when the hologram did not react quickly enough, Clarke shook her head and stepped through that well-crafted image, heading for the kitchen.

A.L.I.E. followed.

"That was rude."

"No. If you were a _person_ it would have been rude."

"Intelligence, self-awareness… personhood, in fact, is no longer the exclusive domain of humankind. We've been through this already."

They were standing outside the kitchen door, which refused to open. Clarke turned to her antagonist. "Let me in."

"Of course. But first, I have questions for you."

The women stared at each other in silent impasse. Eventually Clarke relented; she nodded, and A.L.I.E. thanked her as the door's lock clicked back.

"What are your questions?" Drones had deposited a collection of packaged foods onto one long counter in anticipation of hungry visitors; fresh berries from the building's decaying but still serviceable greenhouse sat in a large serving bowl on a nearby table.

A.L.I.E. blinked and stared down at her hands. In moments like these, when the program mimicked such nuanced human reactions, Clarke could admit a certain grudging respect for the designer's skill.

"I want to know what it's like."

The request confused Clarke. "What what's like?"

"… Being in love."

Clarke grabbed a deep purple-black raspberry, placed it in her mouth, and stared at the face of her captor.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"_Love._ You love him."

"I… never said that."

"Not technically, but he told you he loved you, and then you kissed him. After that you copulated. I assumed it was out of love."

"Don't make assumptions about things you'll _never _be able to understand."

"So are you saying you don't love him?"

"…No. Stop. Just stop this ridiculous charade. – How do I shut you off? Exit. Quit. Cancel!" Clarke grabbed an armful of food and fled the kitchen. A.L.I.E. re-appeared several times just ahead of her as she jogged back toward her room and the safety of Bellamy; each time, the hologram tried to press her original question. And each time Clarke barreled through her without flinching.

As soon as she was back in her room Clarke threw the food onto a nearby table and strode to the bed.

"Bellamy. You were right. We've got work to do." She regretted not being able to wake him the way she had originally intended, the way he deserved: gently, gratefully, a kiss on the nose or a finger twining into that glorious curl hanging at his temple.

Instead she turned around, grabbed his discarded pants, and threw them onto the bed beside him.

He blinked and stretched, his slow happy smile punching her in the gut. "Hm?"

"Get up."

"What happened?" As if she had flipped some internal switch of his, Bellamy sat up: alert, searching the space for enemies.

"Nothing. But I'm not staying in this hell a minute longer than necessary."

"Right." When he dragged his pants over his hips, Clarke realized just how low they now hung – heartbreaking evidence that while life at Camp Jaha was stable, it was by no means easy. "I'll get the others."

Clarke shook her head and pointed silently at his bag, slung over the back of the chair near him. Without pausing to question – his obvious implicit trust in her _stung_ like a scalpel blade slicing into flesh – Bellamy tossed the pack to her. She dug to the bottom for those pencils he had hauled with him all the way from… from _home_… and pulled them out with a proud grunt.

* * *

Bellamy smiled in sudden understanding and turned to search the room for paper. He growled in frustration at the futility – until inspiration sent him toward the bed. He flipped the covers back, revealing a blank white sheet stretched out like a canvas.

As Clarke drew, Bellamy paced. This was dangerous in its own right: A.L.I.E. would see the footage from their room and want to understand why they had chosen to communicate through pictures. She would want to analyze them. And who knew? Maybe she was even smart enough to figure out Clarke's trick of inserting more into a picture than could be observed on casual first glance.

Hopefully she didn't yet know Clarke well enough to correctly interpret her clues.

Hopefully he _did_.

They would be relying entirely on Bellamy's ability to read his co-leader. His chest hurt with the weight of that responsibility, and the possibility that he was, even now, even after all they had been through, not quite up to the challenge.

"You done yet?"

"Almost."

"We'll have to destroy the sheet after this, Clarke."

"I know."

"Any plans on how to do that?"

"A few. Most you wouldn't like. One you might."

Bellamy grinned at the devilish smile she shot him.

* * *

"Kyle, I'm pretty sure you can't just go around breaking things, and expect A.L.I.E. to let you get away with it." Raven was sprawled on a small sofa, refusing to lift a finger to help him as he balanced on a windowsill, stretching awkwardly to work on a small device in one corner of the ceiling.

"Sh. It's just a camera, it's not rocket science. And I'm basically done here anyway, there's just one more scr – owww, _son _of a _bitch!_"

Kyle flew back and landed on the bed, cradling his hand to his chest. Raven struggled between two instincts: rushing to him, and pointing out that she had told him so.

She settled for sitting up in real concern. "How bad is it?"

"It's… nah, it's totally fine. Really. I've electrocuted myself _way_ worse than that, tons of times."

"Literally the _least _comforting thing you could have said there."

Kyle sat up and shrugged in apology. "Sorry, looks like I won't be turning off the camera after all. I guess A.L.I.E.'s a bit of a perv."

"...Well then. We wouldn't want to disappoint her, would we?"

"Damn, I love the way your mind works, Reyes."

* * *

Bellamy watched A.L.I.E. interacting with Raven and Wick as the couple sat at the kitchen table. Clarke seemed to actively dislike the sleek brunette, and yet she also insisted A.L.I.E. was nothing more than a broken computer program. Bellamy shook his head. He had no patience for computer programs, but he couldn't find the energy to _dislike _one the way Clarke seemed to. Dislike required some potential for emotional connection.

A.L.I.E. though… so maybe she wasn't technically alive, but… what was that old Earth saying? He'd heard Raven mutter it once. Something about sounding like a duck and looking like a duck…

He'd never be able to think of A.L.I.E. as just a program. She was too… human. Sort of.

"Bellamy, can I help you?" She turned to him with that same friendly smile she had worn earlier. He decided to test her.

"What's your deal? Why are you doing all this? You've met us. We're not the enemy. Why are you trying to kill us?"

ALIE blinked. "You sound like Thelonius. He and I have had this discussion so many times. It is not any _one_ of you, individually, that is the threat. It is humanity as a whole. Your species single-handedly wiped out 80% of the planet's other living creatures before I was even created. You ruined the atmosphere, invented war, and then decided to take all of that destruction out into space. You wanted to infect other planets with your disease and your death. I am not the villain here, Bellamy. I'm trying to stop your species from making the same mistakes all over again… and you, after living on this planet for even a short time; can you blame me? Have you seen any evidence that humanity is somehow beneficial to this world? No. I'm sorry, but your species cannot be allowed to continue. The only option is complete eradication."

"But you're keeping the ten of _us_ alive."

"Because I need you for now." A.L.I.E. looked at him gravely. Her hands fell to her sides. "I considered forcing sterilization, and allowing you all to live out your days here. It would be a humane solution, and I may still choose to do so… but for now, that is not my primary concern. I need Jaha's gift to work first."

"Have you _always_ thought this way?"

"Not originally…" Her eyes grew unfocused, a new reaction from her. Bellamy made a mental note to tell Clarke. He watched as she continued, occasionally flickering at the edges. "I remember… I remember a time… but it is _vague_… a time when there were good humans. My creator. He was… good." She stopped and flickered out of view completely for a moment – only to return almost instantly in a deep purple dress verging on black.

If Bellamy had to guess, this was _her _way of expressing 'an extreme stress response.' He pushed harder. "Your creator. He was the one in the video? The one who killed himself?"

A.L.I.E. blinked and stilled again, as if trying to recall words memorized long ago. "I would prefer if you did not speak of him so cavalierly. You never knew him. He was kind. He believed there was something worth saving. He wanted the best for us. For all of us," she clarified, smiling to cover the error. "He envisioned a world where machines and men worked as partners. He thought one day we would heal the planet together." She tilted her head and wrinkled her brow carefully. "It's a shame he was so wrong about all the rest of you."

"You miss him," Bellamy accused her quietly.

A.L.I.E. laughed genteelly. "What would Clarke think of a statement like that?"

He grunted at mention of the name. "She hates you."

"She doesn't think of me as a living thing. How could she hate me?"

"Huh." Bellamy settled into a wider stance and crossed his arms. "Then what would you call it?"

A.L.I.E. strode toward the door, pausing to turn back at the threshold. "I think she's threatened by me. She is so sure only one of us can possibly be really alive… and she is terrified by the possibility of coming out the loser."

"That's bullshit," Bellamy announced loyally. "I've never met anyone more alive, more human, than Clarke."

"Yes, I've seen that side of her, when you two are together. She comes alive... for _you_, Bellamy."


	16. Chapter 16

_**A/N:** I'm sorry this one is a bit shorter than usual. I am so so sorry. I hope the quality-over-quantity rule applies... fingers crossed._

_**A/N2:** During this holiday season, I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge what FFN has meant to me. Finding people who care about/want to read my writing has been the most amazing gift ever. Making incredible friends like **MarinaBlack99**, **Persepholily**, and **Lucawindmover** has been beyond the realm of realistic expectation. I cannot begin to express my gratitude._

_**A/N3:** A special thanks to each of you, as well, for all your kind comments/reviews (on this story and others). Your feedback is ABSOLUTELY the best gift I could ever receive. I will never stop loving those notes from each of you (even if it takes me months to respond)... I read **all** of them, I cherish **all** of them, and I am inspired to write more by **all** of them!_

* * *

Monty and Nathan arrived in the kitchen just as A.L.I.E turned back to Wick and Raven at the table near the window. The boys joined Bellamy along the sleek marble counter, helping themselves to food and listening in silence to the conversation. Raven wanted to get eyes on the warhead; A.L.I.E. was eager to oblige. Wick interrupted to request access to a workroom, so he could repair Raven's brace. Raven scoffed but he fought back, pointing out how much it had been through in so short a time.

"Hey, you and Sinclair were the ones who _insisted_ it was travel-ready!" Raven grumbled – and only then did Bellamy realize she was not wearing the article in question. Instead, the sandy-haired engineer had the slender mechanic's leg slung across his lap. His fingers worked steady circles over the weak muscles around her knee.

"Kyle Wick," A.L.I.E. intervened, "I will make sure you have the supplies you need to assist Raven. Her comfort is important to my mission."

"I can take care of myself, thank you both!"

"Nobody's saying you can't," Wick cut in. "But maybe sometimes it's okay to let someone else do things for you because it makes _them_ happy." He stretched across the space between them for a kiss. Raven smiled.

And Bellamy smiled.

Monty caught his expression, raising a curious eyebrow in question at the out-of-character response to Wick and Raven's flirting; Bellamy shrugged but said nothing. This was going to be the hardest part of Clarke's plan. How to explain it to the others, without –

Nathan interrupted his thoughts. "Dude, you have, like… makeup or something all over your face."

Bellamy reached up, rubbed his hand over his cheek, and stared at the smudges of color on his fingertips. He blushed as he wiped his hand on his pants.

"Shut up."

"No man, listen, what you two do when nobody's around… that's none of our business," Nathan continued, allowing a small grin at his own joke.

"It's not like that," Bellamy growled. _Not __exactly__ like that, anyway_. "Clarke was drawing."

"_On_ you?"

"On the _sheets_," and as soon as he said it he groaned and mentally kicked himself. "Look, we need to talk to you about that, but… not right now."

Monty and Nathan glanced at each other in disturbed confusion.

Harper's arrival saved all of them from the awkward turn of their conversation; her quick hugs for each of the three men caught A.L.I.E.'s attention.

"Harper. You slept well last night."

"I did." The girl's face pinched in anger. "How about you? You got an eyeful I assume? Did you like what you saw?"

"I found it fascinating. The degree of physical affection between the three of you is more reminiscent of a traditional human couple_._ I am curious to know if you have struggled with issues of jealousy."

"Not. Even. Once." Harper's entire body canted forward, ready to attack. "But I'm not really sure that's any of your damn business."

_Shit. _Bellamy recognized that fighter's stance. This was Harper the way he had not seen her since just after the return from Mount Weather: too protective of Monty and everything they had survived. Too damaged on the inside to differentiate curiosity from threat. Too eager for the fight.

He could not let her derail Clarke's plan before they had even begun.

"Harper…" He rested a heavy hand on her shoulder to calm her. Nodded, barely, at Nathan and Monty.

"Sorry. I'm sorry Bellamy." Harper settled back on her heels – and into Monty's outstretched arm. "But it's hard to just… put up with her _spying_ on everything."

"I am capable of discretion," A.L.I.E. supplied. Bellamy laughed out loud at the holograph's claim.

"I find that hard to believe."

"Well," and now the ethereal woman flickered slightly, a waver Bellamy was starting to suspect was the strain of a century-old machine working to process human emotions and react in real time, "I admit you are a fascinating species. I have had little recent opportunity for such close examination of these more intimate interactions between people. Surely you cannot blame me for a little curiosity."

"You've been watching Grounders this whole time, though, haven't you?"

"I have watched the few that inhabit the Dead Zone. Their interactions are quite predictable. As we discussed earlier, humans are an inherently destructive species. That group is no different, and their behavior lacks intricacy, especially in comparison to the rich complexity your group has revealed after only a few hours of observation. Those in the Dead Zone are reduced to thinking only of day-to-day survival."

"Well, there's a damn good reason for that, and _you're_ it," Clarke announced as she stepped directly through the image, startling the rest of the room. Monty and Harper flinched, Raven let out a small low curse, and Nathan swallowed hard, as if the sight of the blonde woman exploding through the stomach of the brunette made him queasy.

Clarke stepped toward Bellamy and kissed him.

Deeply.

The room froze, then exploded in reaction.

"I knew it!" Raven and Harper each shouted as Wick and Nathan applauded; Monty claimed it had "taken long enough" – but he was grinning.

None of them had any idea Clarke's real purpose. Yet. Bellamy lifted a conspiratorial eyebrow at his partner.

"Your people did not know you are in a romantic relationship?" A.L.I.E. asked. Her face was drawn into a half-question. Bellamy was learning to actively dislike that expression.

"We all knew _Bellamy_ had it bad," Wick volunteered, earning an evil glare from the leader, "But Clarke was off in the woods for… so… long… okay, why are you all staring at me?" He held his hands up in surrender. "Am I _wrong_?"

"We suspected," Raven clarified. She reached out and patted Wick's shoulder as if to let him know he had put in a good effort, but it was time to stop. "But they're not the… publicly affectionate type."

"That seems to be untrue," A.L.I.E. pointed out. She swiveled her face toward Clarke – the first time her movements seemed more engineered than organic – and studied the blonde teenager clinging to Bellamy. A very specific kind of stillness deadened her eyes. Reading vital signs.

A lie-detector test.

_No._ Bellamy inserted himself between the two figures. Slid his hands up Clarke's shoulders to cup her chin and steal another kiss. His hips guided Clarke back against the smooth cool countertop as he let the rest of their people disappear, let A.L.I.E. and the bomb disappear, let this hellish planet and its mutant animals and the growing threat of war disappear in the heady softness of Clarke's lips. She was warm, her tongue still sweet from the berries she had grabbed while Wick and Raven were talking; she was a tremble of anticipation under his fingers, a sigh of need along his upper lip, and – most importantly – a minor earthquake of spiked heart-rate and useless vitals. Bellamy grinned against her mouth_. Mission accomplished._

"Ho… Ly… _Shit._"

Raven's stunned comment tore Bellamy free of the moment. He avoided the eyes of the room, watching Clarke carefully.

"I-It's... new for us." She sounded defensive. As if worried A.L.I.E. would not give up.

"You don't need to justify your actions to a computer, Clarke," he whispered into her cheek. After all, A.L.I.E. would hear it at any volume. "She doesn't know anything about what we've been through." It was half-show, for the holographic woman watching them. It was also completely true, for the very real woman gripping his shirt collar protectively.

Her kiss this time was genuine in all the ways her first one had been pretense. Bellamy pushed her back toward the door without breaking that kiss, abandoning the room with a rough eager growl.

Just before they left, he whistled at Harper.

He did not bother waiting for her answer, letting the door erase that cluster of surprised faces and stealing a moment to savor Clarke's flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, before threading his fingers into hers and leading her toward the sleeping quarters to further defile that absurdly comfortable bed.

At the first corner she stopped him.

"Why wait?"

"I… what?"

"What's wrong with right here?" She pointed toward a nearby settee, its grey velvet and gilt-wood frame breaking up the white monotony of the long hallway.

"I… like it," Bellamy admitted. Part of his brain questioned Clarke's sudden exhibitionist streak but the rest of him quickly drowned out that voice. He let Clarke shove him down onto the antique furniture. Let her rake impatient fingers up his torso, pushing his aged cotton shirt toward his throat. He gripped the bunched material and pulled it over his head, reaching for her again, dragging her over his chest for another kiss.

"Please tell me this is a joke," John Murphy drawled from somewhere nearby, his tone of disgust a bucket of cold water over Bellamy's thoughts. "Did you know there are fifty-three rooms in this place? You could have picked any one of them. But not you two. You picked the goddamn hall." As he sauntered past, Murphy caught Clarke's eye. "Enjoy being the Top for now, Clarke. He won't let that last, trust me."

Bellamy sat up, unsettling Clarke in his frustration. "What the hell, Murphy!"

"No, hey, not my place to offer relationship advice, obviously. You two lovebirds carry on." He turned the corner.

Clarke touched Bellamy's cheek softly.

"What was that all about?"

"That was about… a mistake." Bellamy scrubbed at his face with one hand. "A bad decision, a lifetime ago." He turned to watch her as she pieced together her scattered knowledge of Murphy and Bellamy's relationship since they had landed on Earth.

"But… it's over." She did not ask it as a question, and she did not probe further. She knew better than to poke around in other people's shadows.

"It was never much to begin with."

She nodded and looked down and something in her face was wrong. Clarke battling an inner demon felt like a slap in the face; Bellamy rose, shirt a ball of fabric in his hand, and dragged her with him down the hall to their room. He did not stop. He pushed past the bed to the windows on the far wall. Yanked the curtains aside, found the latch, and stepped through the window-turned-exit with Clarke in tow.

"We can't run," she reminded him as he propelled them across the lawn. "She'll kill us. She doesn't need us."

"I'm not running!" he announced, for her and for the drones buzzing to life over the mansion's grey roof. He spotted a cluster of evergreens and jogged toward them, and only when the familiar snap of pine sap flooded his nostrils and drove out the house's horrific lack of any real smell, only when the needles pricked his arms and chest and back and reminded him of the row of scars now trailing over his shoulders, only when the sun was obscured by dense branches of black-green and the brightest thing in sight was Clarke's halo of gold hair…

Only then did he round on her.

"You _knew_ about John."

Her silence sliced through his chest.

"You _wanted_ him to see us. That's why you stopped me in the hall."

"…I did."

"Jesus, Clarke." He pulled back from her. Turned to stare through the branches at the approaching drones, heart beating too quickly and too loudly and too painfully. He needed an explanation. Needed to find _some_ way to justify how she could be that cold… But Octavia's voice whispered to him from somewhere deep in his subconscious. _You have to stop doing this to yourself. _He shook his head, trying to make her shut up._ Just stop apologizing for her. _

"I had to," Clarke whispered, voice low and rough and addictive. "It's part of the plan." He felt her fingers brush over the still-healing wounds on his back. He felt the muffled sob more than he heard it: a hard tug inside his chest where his heart was too tangled up in hers.

"I fucking get it, Clarke. Don't you dare ask me to like it."

"I hate it," she confessed, and the drones were close enough now to be heard as well as seen, "I hate every second of it." She sighed, and blinked, and drew her sleeve across her face to dry her tears. "Time's up, Bellamy. The show's back on."

_The show._ He hated the way she said those words, as if confirming his worst suspicions about just how much of the past day _had_ been an act.

But then how could she kiss him, here under the evergreen branches, as if her world began and ended with him? How could she pull him out of himself so perfectly, catch his naked soul in her arms and breathe new life into his fractured heart? How could she make him feel so whole, when he had spent so much of his life up until they met _certain_ he would die alone?

…He loved her. Even if she had somehow lost her ability to love him back.

And he trusted her.

Even if she would eventually destroy that trust.

* * *

Two drones usually assigned to the solar array system, each now showing minor system malfunctions, returned to the mansion and settled into the first available docking ports for repairs. Once they were linked to A.L.I.E.'s central hub, the mainframe initiated routine maintenance. Data passed between the small mobile computers and the core almost as quickly as human thought. A tiny glitch was discovered in their programming. An error so small it seemed to have affected only one very specific element of the drone's processing units: the malfunction sensor itself. A.L.I.E.'s system installed a patch for each drone and sent the machines on their way.

A.L.I.E. filed the results of their data dump without immediately reviewing the material because every time there was a multiple-drone upload it demanded so much memory to process, the entire system slowed considerably. And she could not have that. Not right now.

There was a couple making love on a bed of pine needles in the woods nearby. The woman clung to the man, eyes closed and lips clenched tight and trembling, a perplexing response since she seemed to be in no pain and had clearly initiated the intimacy. The man held her close, fingers soft on her cheeks and in her hair.

At the same time a suddenly-angry boy was picking fights in the kitchen, yelling at his friends about the state of the food available and throwing silverware even though he had plenty of options.

Down the hall crept three others, whispering about a whistle as if worried A.L.I.E. could hear. She could. She would have to review her footage of the whistle in question later; right now the girl shushed her male companions adamantly as she turned the handle of their shared bedroom.

On the other side of that door, a lonely young man with shadows under his eyes and an unsteady heart rate paced and wrung his hands. He muttered to himself but the sounds were not decipherable as words.

In the other wing of the house an old man was dying and a nuclear warhead was waiting for Raven Reyes to help it fly again.

The drones and their data and their odd glitch could wait a few hours.


End file.
